


A Time to Cast Away Stones

by Moonjean



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, BATTLE OF 5000 ARMIES, M/M, Stubborn Dwarves, Time Bandits mashup, fortress of ultimate darkness, messing with the timeline, no time for love dr jones!, no! it's evil! don't touch it!, not doing the research, search for the shiny, slow burn?, there will be eagles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-05 13:10:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1819600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonjean/pseuds/Moonjean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Filling a prompt on the kinkmeme: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/8973.html?thread=20182285#t20182285</p><p>Bilbo Baggins only knew adventures from inside his books and maps. When thirteen dwarves crash into Bag End through a magic portal, carrying a map of all the known timeholes in Middle Earth, Bilbo will be forced along--chased by a dragon across time and space, searching for the Arkenstone which will restore the dwarven kingdom of Erebor, while a greater evil lurks in the darkness.</p><p>Geez, I'd watch that movie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Everything There is a Time

Bilbo awoke with a start, covered in a cold sweat, and fought against his sheets until he fell out of bed with a plunk and blinked at the morning sun. “Oh, my.” He swallowed hard. “That wasn’t a very pleasant dream.” In his dream, there had been fire and a winged shadow with great big teeth and a kingdom burning.

He righted himself, picking his bedding off the floor, and out fell the book he had been reading last night. Yes, the _History of the Fall of Gondolin_. The great elven city had been besieged by orcs and balrogs and…

“Dragons. Of course, dragons at the wall. The stuff would give anyone nightmares.” The terror that gripped him on awakening was quickly fading in the cheery morning in Bag End. He shuffled off to his kitchen to fry up eggs and bacon. Silly things dreams. In his, the elven city looked more like a rumbly mountain than a proper palace. And if his poor imagination had made the elves much too short, well, he was a hobbit after all. One did think of themselves on a certain scale and he would unconsciously make everyone in proper hobbit proportions. Bilbo had no idea where the beards came from. Big, bristling, bushy, fierce things, braided and beaded. _Elves don’t have beards_ , Bilbo laughed to himself. Not even the hairiest Stoor could sprout something so magnificent. Maybe a few men could…

He found he could not remember even half the dream faced with a pan of sizzling bacon. It vanished like steam from his tea kettle.

The midmorning was so bright and welcoming, Bilbo could not help giving up on his spring cleaning for a rest out in the sun with a pipe in his hand.

The air was sweet with the smell of cut grass and Bilbo closed his eyes and breathed deeply, completely oblivious until a shadow blocked out the sun. Bilbo’s eyes shot open and looked up, and up some more, to see a tall man with a long gray beard, draped in gray robes, leaning onto a staff, peering down into Bilbo’s face intently.

“Good morning,” Bilbo greeted the stranger politely if not cordially.

“What do you mean by wishing me good morning?” The big folk asked in a gruff voice.

Bilbo blinked. “It is what one commonly says around these parts. I do not know how they greet people where you are from, but seeing as it is a remarkably lovely morning, I believe the saying stands. Good morning.” He repeated, clamping his pipe stem between his teeth.

The old man ducked his head, hat shielding his face from view and muttered something that sounded like, “To think I’d see the day…coming all this way to be good morning’d by--” He cut himself off and drew up to his full height. “I am called by many names, but you may know me as Gandalf the Grey. And Gandalf means--me.”

“And…what are you?”

The old man chuffed. “I so happen to be a wizard.”

Bilbo looked over the tattered robes and wayward beard, raising an eyebrow. He was not impressed.

Gandalf stooped over to gaze into Bilbo’s eyes. “Have you found what you’ve been looking for, Bilbo Baggins?”

Bilbo coughed on a bit of smoke that went down hot and wrong. The thoughts of dragon fire burned him from within and the sound of swords clashing metal and metal rang in his ears. “I don’t know what you mean by that,” he scolded, frowning. He brushed past the wizard to check his mail, shuffling through the letters without reading them. He gave the wizard one last glance and good morning before spinning on his heel and marching back to his green door.

It was not until he was safely ensconced within Bag End that the thought hit him. _Now how did that wizard know my name?_

The next night found Bilbo restless. He broke into his larder twice. Once for blueberry scones. The next for clotted cream for the scones. Then of course he had to make tea, and this was heading onto a eighth meal, but Bilbo would just count this as a midnight snack. The empty plate of crumbs sat on the bedside table, cup and saucer propped on his chest as he lay back in bed. He would have to shake the crumbs out of the sheets in the morning, but there was nothing that settled a hobbit’s restless mind like a full stomach.

He was just drifting off, when a tremendous crash had him bolt upright, heart thumping out of his chest. Bilbo slapped a hand across his mouth to stifle his agitated breathing as he strained to listen. There were thumps…footsteps! A bump, a clatter of silverware falling to the floor. Several muffled voices. Burglars! He was being burgled!

A sensible hobbit would have climbed out the window and run for help. A sensible hobbit might have even hid under the bed and waited out the intruders. But Bilbo was half Took, and that half seemed to have seized control because he found himself belting on his robe and creeping to his bedroom door, cracking it to peek through. There was nothing to see in the dark, so he slipped out into the hall and crept toward the voices with only the moonlight to guide him. Deep, rumbling, voices. He could not count how many. Bilbo could see nothing but shadows against the night. They were in--He straightened up. They were in his larder!

“Of all the nerve!” Bilbo hissed. He looked about him, grabbing a walking stick from the umbrella stand. Burglars were supposedly a cowardly lot, right? Sneaking in the middle of the night. A lot of noise and a little light would frightened them off, no matter how many they outnumbered Bilbo.

Bilbo swallowed, braced himself, and before he could talk himself out of this nonsense, leapt out into the doorway. “Who goes there?!” He shouted.

There was a half a moment of silence, and then the room erupted. A dark blob separated from the group of shadows and charged him with a ferocious, foreign cry, tackling the little hobbit to the floor. Bilbo struggled as the other shadows closed in and hands grasped his arms and legs and something sat on his chest.

“I’ve got his feet! They’re huge!” A voice rang.

“Get some light over here. Let’s see his face.” Another shouted.

The strike of a match blinded Bilbo, then a lit candle was shoved in his face, illuminating the faces of his intruders as well. Four, eight, ten…thirteen! Thirteen burly, bearded figures stared down at him. Dwarves!

“A child?” An elegant silver-haired dwarf frowned down at him.

“Can’t be. This place is too small,” a young, fidgety one commented. “More to scale. Suggesting he’s fully grown.”

“I’m not a child!” Bilbo remarked indignantly, groaning internally. He really should keep his mouth shut.

“Eh, what’d he say?” An older one held a trumpet to his ear. “Who’s gone wild?”

“He’s got no beard!” A dark-haired one commented, rather astonished, nudging a blond peer, both wide-eyed, open expressions betraying their youth.

“Secure the doors. Get him off the floor,” a deep voice rumbled. Those not holding on to Bilbo scampered off to obey the orders, while the remainder wrestled him off the floor, two locking Bilbo’s arms so he could not flee.

A dwarf with a outrageously complicated hairstyle returned first. “All clear. No one’s gettin’ in or out.”

“I don’t understand. This is where the mark on the map led us.” The deep voice grumbled, belonging to a tall, imposing dwarf with piercing blue eyes that glowered at Bilbo as if he was responsible for all the wrong of this condition. Bilbo almost felt castigated under that glare until he reminded himself that this was his home and these were his burglars--that is, they were burglaring his home-- _Blast it all!_ Bilbo puffed himself up and tried to stare angrily back, but those deep blue eyes passed over him as if he were a gnat.

“I found the mark!” The young blond came loping back with his shadow, like a pair of puppies. “It’s right there on the front door!” His dark haired cohort chimed in, proud as punch.

“What’s on my door?” Bilbo demanded.

“I don’t understand.” The dark dwarf, their leader, took a bit of parchment from an inside pocket of his coat, unfolding it, and studied it as if looking for some secret. “The map led us here.”

“But it’s a _door_! And we have a key! Maybe the key will work--”

The blond dwarf thumped the other. “This isn’t the Mountain, Kili.”

“Excuse me, but--” Bilbo tried to interject, eyes worriedly following the few dwarves who poked about his larder shelves.

“But we’re underground!”

“Are we?” A dwarf in a floppy hat peered out the big round window at the twinkling stars above. “Seems we’re both under and outside.”

“I said, excuse me!” Bilbo shook off his captors’ holds. They fell off surprisingly easily as if they did not truly consider him a threat. And with the size they were, and outnumbering him, and…just how heavily he noticed they were armed--spears, swords, axes…did that dwarf have one _imbedded in his head?_   “J--just what are you doing in my house and-- _put down that wheel of cheese!"_ He pointed in shock as a rotund dwarf with a long coiled braid waddled past.

“Bombur, will you stop eating!” A fearsome, tattooed tall dwarf with twin axes growled.

Bilbo stumbled back and into a bushy white beard, whirling around. The beard was attached to an elderly dwarf whose eyes twinkled. “Balin.” He bowed graciously. “At your service.”

“Uh, B-Bilbo Baggins, at yours.”

“A pleasure, Master Baggins,” he started soothingly, placing his hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “We apologize for intruding on your evening, and we’ll only be a moment before we’ll be going on our way. Only, if you could just tell us, where exactly are we?”

“Where--? Bag End. This here.” He pointed down. “Is Bag End.” He was met with a blank look. “You’re in Hobbiton. In the Shire.”

“I see, and we are not near any mountains.”

Bilbo tilted his head in bewilderment. “Mountains?”

“We’re in the wrong place,” their majestic leader growled. “Again.”

“Maybe we’ve been reading the map wrong, Uncle,” the young dwarf surreptitiously cleared a space on the countertops, plucked the map out of their leader’s hands and spread it out in the candlelight.

Bilbo could not help but be drawn to it. The dwarves had seemingly forgotten he was their captive--they certainly did not seemed concerned enough to tie him up or stuff him in a sack. Tookish curiosity won over propriety and he silently drew closer to get a look at this map from over the dwarves’ shoulders. It was like no map he had ever seen, a complicated set of whorls and arcs. At some parts he could almost make out familiar places, Bree, the forests around Buckland. The names of unfamiliar places were there for him to read one moment: Gondor, Rohan, Isengard, only to shimmer away the next. One place caught his attention, a solitary mountain peak with a winged creature poised ominously above it.

“The Lonely Mountain,” Bilbo read to himself before the words disappeared.

The dark haired leader abruptly glanced up at him, frown tugging down his mouth.

“What do we do about him--whatever he is.” The tattooed dwarf growled low.

Those blue, blue eyes--like a summer sky after the sun has set, when the fireflies some out to play, and couples walked hand and hand along winding paths--for a moment Bilbo saw something fragile and lost in their depths, but they turned away and Bilbo turned his attention back to that marvelous map. He loved to look at maps. His mother had gone on her own adventures and had brought home books, histories, and the maps. She would point to the each of the places she had gone, Buckland, Bree, _Rivendell!_ And each place had a story, but few maps had shown much of Middle Earth outside of Eriabor, and Bilbo longed to know what lay beyond the Blue Mountains to the West or the Misty Mountains to the East.

Mountains. _If these dwarves wished to find mountains, they are far off the mark_ , Bilbo thought to himself, curiously.

His ears pricked as he picked up the tail end of a conversation.

“He’s hardly a threat. We’ll leave and he’ll have no trace of us.”

“And what if he talks?”

“ _He_ can hear you,” Bilbo announced loudly, turning to see the tattooed dwarf and the leader bent close, muttering. Bilbo put his hand to his forehead, not even wondering where his sense of self-preservation had gone. It must have fled leaving his nerves shot to the point where he could not even properly cower with fear. “Look, I have had it up to here with you dwarves. Now, you can go back the way you came, and you-- _you can take the cheese!--_ just, I’ll be happy to pretend you were never here.”

Most of the dwarves looked taken aback at his outburst, others looked amused--the one with the hat chuckled--only the young dwarf in his knitted cardigan had the grace to look ashamed. Their leader approached him, looming over Bilbo to stare down his nose like the hobbit was some squawking nuisance. It took the last of Bilbo’s nerves, bound together by threads, to stand his ground under that heavy gaze.

Their leader’s lip curled and he broke away first, leaving Bilbo to sag, hands trembling, and with the feeling that he had been found wanting.

“Where do suppose the way out is, Fili?” The dark-haired miscreant went knocking his bookshelves. The dwarf with the hat was peeking under the rugs, lifting up doilies. A dwarf with a bushy red beard was poking at the ceiling with his axe. In short, these dwarves were searching for an exit anywhere but the front door. There was really nothing like looking if one wanted to find something. Frankly, Bilbo could not find it in himself to care over the sudden, overwhelming ringing in his ears. _Bother and confusticate these dwarves!_ He slumped against the wall of the larder, exhausted. The fat dwarf, Bombur, seemed more interested in poking around the contents of said larder, a plate of chive scones piled on the cheese wheel, all tucked under his double chin.

“Pardon me,” he said quietly to Bilbo as he squeezed by. It was a tight fit between the shelves and Bilbo, and the poor dwarf went stumbling right into the wall, and Bilbo’s heart almost stopped as the wall collapsed under his weight.

“He’s found it! Kili, over here!” The blond one named Fili crowed. He the dark haired one--Kili--came bounding in first, the other dwarves hot on their heels, all shoving and crowding around the wall. The wall had not crumpled, but had moved back by a good foot, revealing a line between worn floorboards, and new untouched wood beyond. Fili laid his shoulder against it and shoved, sliding the wall back another couple inches. “This is the exit! Good work, Bombur!”

Bombur looked mournfully at the spilled and trampled scones. Bilbo acutely felt his pain.

“Come one, everyone. Dori, you’re the strongest! Gloin! Dwalin! Push!”

Bilbo filtered to the back of the group as the strongest of the dwarves surged forward, grunting as they pushed the wall another half a foot. _I am going to have a new hallway in Bag End_ , he thought in a daze. He found himself standing with the timid-looking younger dwarf who gave him an enthusiastic grin, cheering on the one called Dori. “He’s my brother. I’m Ori, and that’s my other brother Nori,” the young dwarf explained, a bit nervously, worrying at his knitted handwarmers. Bilbo nodded politely on reflex, because as annoying as these dwarves were, he could not be angry when faced with this shy, unassuming fellow. Ori looked at him curiously. “What are you, Mister Baggins, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Oh!--why I’m a hobb--”

He was interrupted as sharp crack split the air and a gale force wind swirled in out of no where, banging the windows and door and buffeting Bilbo into Ori.

“Thorin!” Balin yelled, and their leader whipped around, eyes widening in something so close to fear it made Bilbo quake.

“Everyone! We have no time! Push!” The leader--Thorin--yelled. The group did not have to be told twice as they all stormed the wall as one.

“What is it? What’s going on?” Bilbo yelled to be heard about the roar of the wind.

“Oh, Mahal! He’s followed us.” The dwarf with the hat looked back, his eyes wide.

From out of the storm spilled smoke and a voice like thunder. “RETURN WHAT YOU HAVE STOLEN FROM ME!” Smoke quickly spewed into the little hobbit hole, spurred on by a hot wind that had sweat running down Bilbo’s face.

“What is that!?” He yelped, looking around for a place to hide.

“Push! On three! Push!” All the dwarves put their shoulders to the wall and shoved it back ten feet. Bilbo glanced at them and then back at the glowing heat, like a red hot poker or a stoked oven, flames billowing into his larder. There really was no choice. He sprinted after the dwarves, catching up to them and lending his weight to push the wall into an ever-lengthening corridor, as they charged forward. He glimpsed the conflagration over his shoulder, fire curled and licked the corridor, the floor hot under his feet, and Bilbo grieved for his pillaged larder and his comfortable home.

“RETURN WHAT YOU HAVE STOLEN! RETURN! RETURN THE--!”

The wall gave way into nothingness and their momentum was too great to halt as they all tumbled down, down, down into a dark abyss as a furious roar of defeat howled above them.


	2. A Time to Uproot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter. I'm just stalling.

They fell forever. A wind whipped past so fierce that it stole the breath from Bilbo and tears welled in his eyes. He screwed them shut. There was truly nothing to see in the dark, though he could make out the forms of the dwarves tumbling along with him, but he honestly did not want to see when they would land--if they would land--for no one could survive a fall from such a height as he was now plunging from.

Only then did he feel his ears pop, and it did not seem as if they were falling quite so fast. A bright light shown behind his eyelids and the wind did not howl quite so empty. His own cry--Bilbo had not even realized he had been shouting--faded in, joining the bellowing of the dwarves, each one abruptly cut short. Bilbo opened his eyes just in time to add his own _oomph_ as he landed on the top of a dwarf heap.

 _Oh, well that could have been much worse._ He thought, a little dazedly, none the worse for wear except for a sore back--dwarves were not the most comfortable to land on--but there was blue sky above and a fluffy white cloud, and there were branches and green leaves rustling in the breeze. He could be content just to lie here a little longer and regain his senses.

But the dwarf pile heaved with a tremendous roar as the tattooed dwarf and the one with the bushy red beard tried to buck off their companions from the bottom of the stack. Bilbo had to roll and scuttle off lest he be squashed, and he retreated to the edge of the dwarf bunch, watching them straighten their clothes and check for their weapons. They seemed to wander into groups of two's and three's, partnering off to see if all made it in one piece. Bilbo fidgeted, thinking himself forgotten, and was surprised when the one dwarf, straightening his hat, turned to him with bright, brown eyes and a lopsided grin to ask him:

“Ye alright there, laddie?”

“Um, y--ye--” Bilbo twitched out something like a nod, not entirely able to speak just yet.

The dwarf with the hat, pulled out a flute from somewhere in his coat. “Oh, good. Thought I felt it broke.” He piped a few merry notes on it.

“Quiet.” The tattooed dwarf shoved toward them, glaring at the flute. “Or I’ll break it for ye.”

The dwarf with the axe in his head stepped between them in defense of his companion, growling something in an incomprehensible language before slapping his left elbow and flicking his index finger.

“Now, now, there’s no need for that.” The older dwarf, Balin, insinuated himself between the two. “You read the contract. No fighting except for practice sparring.”

“Ah, pay no mind to Dwalin, Bifur.” The dwarf with the hat looped his arm around the one with the axe. “He just don’t take to being used as a cushion.”

Bifur grunted and tapped two fingers to his cheek.

“Never doubted you could take him.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Just save it for later, eh?” The dwarf with the hat winked at Bilbo as if he were in on the joke.

“Bofur, at your service.” The dwarf clutched his hat to his head as he dipped into a bow.

“Bi--Bilbo Baggins at yours-- _where are we?_ ”

There was really so much a respectable hobbit could take.

“What is _he_ doing with us?”

It was less of a question and more of an accusation as their leader Thorin narrowed his eyes at Bilbo.

Bilbo sputtered. “What am I--?”

“There’s no reason to be harsh on the lad,” Balin once again intervened in a conflict. “He really had no choice considering--”

“What am _I doing here?_ ” Bilbo’s voice went high and pitchy, but rallied himself as he stood face to…chest, raising up on his toes because he was not going to let anyone use their height to intimidate him--hobbits had been putting up with that in all their dealings with big folk. “You see here, whoever you are. _You_ broke into _my_ home. _You_ are responsible for pillaging my larder, destroying my walls, _burning it_ \--” Here he faltered. Bag End, his beautiful home, his mother’s wedding present, sitting there a burned out shell. But this image only sparked his anger. “You have a lot of nerve to go trampling on other people’s lives and then daring to accuse them of--whatever you’re trying to accuse me of--” Bilbo screwed up his face into his most severe expression. “You are very rude.”

Those blue eyes blinked down at him. While the dwarf did not appear sufficiently chastised, he did look rather thrown through a loop. It made Bilbo wonder when was the last time this Thorin had a good dressing down, or if anyone had the nerve to do it. The dwarf’s mouth opened as if to respond, but then clicked shut and he whirled away to bark orders to his company.

“Spread out. Nobody goes alone. Find out where we are.”

 _Oh._ Bilbo watched the majestic swing of his coat as the dwarf marched away. _That went…rather well._ His knees turned to water beneath him.

A pair of hands clapped under each of his elbows and held him up. A quick glance to either side found a matching set of smiles, one fair and one dark.

“Fili!”

“And Kili!”

“AT YOUR--” They began in unison.

“At my service, yes, I’m sure.” Bilbo interrupted.

Kili smiled. “That was impressive, Mr. Boggins.”

“We’ve never seen Uncle quite so speechless.” Fili added.

“It’s Baggins. Did you say uncle--?”

“Not that he’s usually the most talkative dwarf. But once he’s started into one of his speeches.” Kili gave a low whistle.

“So what exactly are you, Mr. Boffins?” Fili asked.

“Baggins!”

“Ori said you were some kind of hob-thing.” Kili squinted his eyes.

“Hob-ling?” Fili offered.

“Hobbit! Hob-bit! My name is Bilbo Baggins of Bag End and I am a hobbit!”

The two brothers backed away at this fit and fixed him with matching clueless expressions, as if they could not figure out why on this good green earth the little fellow was working himself into such a snit.

“He says he’s a hobbit,” Fili called over his shoulder toward Ori.

Bilbo heard a small _oh_ , followed by a timid _sorry_ , and his frustration melted away just a little, leaving him embarrassed, and--really, he had only just met the dwarf but who could honestly stay mad at anyone like Ori?

“It’s alright.” Bilbo called over to Ori. “It’s alright.” He sucked a deep breath through his nose. “I’m alright.” He said, flat out lying. The two young dwarves bought it immediately and resumed their places on either side of him, dragging him along.

“Uncle says we’re not to lose each other while we’re searching.”

“And as Dwalin has Balin, and Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur and Dori, Nori, and Ori tend to stick together--”

“As do Oin and Gloin--”

“Aren’t we missing someone?” Kili asked, forehead wrinkling. “That’s only ten.”

The two stood in silent thought.

Bilbo heaved a sigh. “And then there’s you two, Fili and Kili.”

“That’s right, and Uncle!”

“Who’s he partnered with?”

The two spun Bilbo around until they spotted their Uncle, leading Dwalin and Balin, hacking at a low tree limb. Bilbo winced.

“He’s fine, and then there’s you!” Kili exclaimed.

“And now we’re fourteen, which will make Oin happy.”

“Oin?” Bilbo furrowed his brow.

“Ear trumpet. He didn’t like thirteen in the company. Said we’d have nothing but bad luck.” Kili explained.

“Except now you’re our fourteenth, so you can carry all our luck.” Fili grinned down at Bilbo.

Really, these two were enough to make Bilbo’s head spin and he had dealt with all manner of nattering, gossiping old relations over elevensies. They were so overwhelming in fact that Bilbo had almost failed to take in his new surroundings properly.

“Where are we?” He asked himself, staring up at a glittering, white wall.

Though he had seen sky when he first landed, they were truly in some sort of walled courtyard, perhaps a garden, everything green and growing. Bilbo had been fooled into thinking it was something natural and untended, until the dwarves had spread out and they had discovered that the worn, trodden earth converted into paved stone pathways that led to an arching doorway in a high wall made of a white, sparkling stone that Bilbo could not name. The dwarves furtively passed underneath this archway in their small units, Bilbo held back till last. Once through the arch, Bilbo found himself on a walkway, a balcony overlooking a great city. Bilbo looked down over the rail and then turned his face up and up. They were on a hill or perhaps a mountain, the city ringed around it in tiers, each massive, formidable, yet elegant. It took Bilbo’s breath away to be in a city so large that he had not even realized when he had landed right in its heart. A city so great that a courtyard garden felt like a forest.

The dwarves fell silent around him, no doubt also in awe of this place, until Bilbo turned around and saw the real reason for their stillness.

Spears were leveled on them, forming an impenetrable ring of fearsomely armed big folk. The dwarves quickly closed ranks, pushing Bilbo towards the center, but it would have been futile to draw their weapons. They would die before their hands even clasped their axes. One of the big folk stepped forward into the ring, drawing his sword and waving it inches from Thorin’s nose. His gleaming helm formed a furrow over his brow, making his eyes glint hard and cold. “How did dwarves find their way into the hidden city?” He demanded.

“Hidden city?” Bilbo perked up his ears. There was only one such place in all of Middle Earth. “Could they mean--? Gondolin?” He squeaked, wriggling between the dwarves to get a closer look at their guards. The one big folk who spoke commanded the others in a musical language, turning his head, and Bilbo caught a glance of the elegant sweep to a pointed ear.

“Elves!” He breathed, enraptured.

“Elves.” He heard Thorin hiss under his breath like a curse.

Bilbo should have known it would all only go downhill from there.


	3. A Time to Speak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Now, I think it's time for an explanation."

The elves had lead them, bound together, deep into the city, down twisting corridors and flights of stairs. Bilbo had tried to look everywhere at once, take in the glories of the hidden elven city without tripping over his bonds or stumbling into the nearest grumbling, surly dwarf.

 _Gondolin!_ If his mother could see him now. _Gondolin!_

To his dismay, they were taken underground. The dwarves did not seem to mind that so much but were less than happy about being led to the dungeons. Bilbo peered through the bars into the large cell. The elves apparently had it in mind to keep them all together rather than split them up.

“Is this really all necessary?” Bilbo asked the elf guard who removed the chains and cuffs from his wrists as they were one by one tossed into the cell. He tried to come across both like Belladonna when she was sardonically cutting a Sacksville-Baggins and like Bungo, deeply unamused when Bilbo came home late trailing leaves and fireflies. But he was afraid he came off more like big-eyed puppy who had lost its way. Or at least that is what he deduced from the looks the elves gave him. While they were suspicious of a pack of dwarves sneaking into their city--and rightly so, Bilbo could admit--they seemed confused as to what to make of a hobbit. Their faces were somewhere between kindly and bewildered when they considered him--at least, that is what Bilbo thought, seeing as how, even perplexed, elves still managed an air of grace and etherealness.

The guard shrugged apologetically. “Is is nothing personal. It is only until our king decides what to do with these dwarves and…you.”

Bilbo sniffed but let himself be ushered into the cell, iron bars clanging loudly as the last dwarf was shoved inside. “Still, it’s no way to treat guests. Though, I suppose you don’t get many here.”

The elf quirked an elegant smile. “If you are truly guests, we shall not see you lack for comfort.”

Bilbo tapped the metal bars, hearing their dull ring. “Much obliged by the sentiment, I’m sure.”

Then the elves left them with only the guards posted at the only entrance to the cell block. Bilbo leaped back in shock as Dwalin immediately threw himself at the bars, clanging them as he roared, followed by Oin and Gloin, the older brother shoving the younger into the bars. Bilbo stumbled into the center of the cell. Bofur and Bifur were tapping at the walls, muttering about mineral composition, while Balin ran his hand along the opposite wall, fingers digging into cracks and crevices, and even pressing his ear to it at spots.

“These are elvish prisons,” Balin declared loudly, shooting a frustrated glance at those attacking the iron bars. “They were forged by smiths who bound magic with metal. These are no flimsy goblin cells. You’ll sooner break your heads upon them.”

“I think it’s time for--” Bilbo started, his voice drawing everyone’s attention and he faltered, realizing he was standing in the center of the cell with all eyes upon him. He cleared his throat and straightened his spine in a move that was equally Baggins and Tookish and started again.

“Now, I think it’s time for an explanation.”

Dwalin snorted and turned back to the bars. Gloin joined him. Oin reared back with a bewildered look at his ear trumpet and shook it--who knew what he had heard.

Ori perked up, standing to speak, but the silver-haired dwarf pulled back down with a scolding look as if putting a wayward fauntling back in his place. The rest of the dwarves traded looks and returned their attention to escaping from their cell. Bilbo forcibly stiffened his muscles so he could not hunch in on himself. He felt suddenly small--The world had gotten too big. Hobbits were perfectly sized for their own purpose!--and forgotten, or more like he was not worthy enough of being given any explanation. He glanced down at himself and sighed. _Well, who is going to take you seriously, Bilbo Baggins, when_ _you’re traipsing around in your tatty dressing gown?_ Bilbo absently retied his belt a little tighter.

Kili had wandered over to Thorin and none-too-subtly gave him a kick to the shin. Thorin glared at him, only to have Fili box him in on the other side and jab his upper arm with a rabbit punch. Thorin scowled and crossed his arms, pressing himself securely into his corner of the cell.

Balin sighed and shook his head. He meandered over to Bilbo and put a hand on his arm, somebody finally taking pity on the poor fellow, and led him over to take a seat on the ledge that ran along the walls of the prison. He began:

“Far away to the east, beyond the Misty Mountains, over ranges and rivers, lies a single, solitary peak, and beneath it, the greatest dwarven kingdom in Middle Earth. Erebor, ruled by the mightiest of lords, Thror, King Under the Mountain.” Balin’s eyes softened, focused on distant, fond memories. “Ah, Erebor. A city built into the Lonely Mountain. Great seams of gold ran like rivers through stone, and the music of the mountain was the ringing of hammers as craftsman fashioned objects of great beauty out of precious gems and gold.”

Bilbo listened, enthralled, and in his mind he could see the great halls, dark tunnels lit by a million lamps, the glow of hot forges and the sparkling of gold, emeralds, rubies, sapphires, and diamonds, as numerous as stars in the midnight sky.

Balin’s eyes glittered and he continued, his voice tinged with a deep sadness. “Then was uncovered the Heart of the Mountain, the King’s Jewel, the Arkenstone, the most beautiful and treasured of all gems. Thror took it as a sign of Erebor’s might, and under his leadership and the light of the Arkenstone, Erebor prospered more with each passing season.”

A shadow crossed the old dwarf’s face. “But the years of peace and plenty were not to last.

“It was like a hurricane come down from the North, a hot, dry wind. The pines on the mountains creaked and cracked. It was a fire-drake from the North. The last great calamity of our age, Smaug had come.”

 _All that gold!_ Bilbo thought. _Yes, a mountain of gold would be temptation enough for a dragon._ For the stories all told that dragons coveted gold with a dark and fierce desire, guarding their hoard for as long as they lived.

“Many perished in the flames. Those that survived were forever robbed of our home. And we have wandered since for many, many years.”

Bilbo let the wheels turn in his head. “Then…that was what was chasing us…a--”

“I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen one.” Bofur interrupted, chewing on the end of his pipe. The others had obviously been listening in on Balin’s tale. “He’s about, oh, big enough to wrap himself around a hill two, three times. Bright red. Teeth as big as swords. Claws like spears. Belly covered in precious metals.”

Bilbo felt his breath come short and a ringing in his ears. He forced himself to take deep gulps of air through his nose.

“Think furnace with wings.”

“I know what a dragon is, thank you!” He snapped. That was the trouble with having too vivid an imagination. Bilbo could practically feel those teeth rip into him and his flesh char off the bone as he tumbled down the monster’s gullet. He took a few more settling breaths. No, he was not going to faint. “Nope.”

“Are you quite all right now?” The dwarf with silver hair twisted in elaborate braids laid a firm but gentle hand on his back. “You look like you could do with a nice cuppa chamomile.”

“Ah--” Bilbo stuttered. Then there was the concerned face of Ori peering over the silver dwarf’s shoulder, and oh, yes! Weren’t they brothers? Lori? Or Bori? Dori! That was it! Blast! How was he supposed to remember all of their names after they came tumbling into his home without even a by-your-leave! The two brothers did not look all that much alike, but standing side by side and gazing at Bilbo like he was some shaking kitten, genuine concern writ all over their faces. Well, Bilbo was not normally so timid but those two might have cowed even Lobelia Sacksville-Baggins. “Yes, but I don’t suppose our guards would allow us any?”

“Oh, there’s always time for tea,” Dori fussed, looking about as if a pot might materialize. “Even elves must allow us something civilized.”

Balin cleared his throat, regaining the hobbit's attention, and continued:

“Then rumors had begun to spread. The dragon had not been seen in many years, and we hoped that the stone lay unprotected. Thror had died many years ago in battle, and his son Thrain had been missing since. But, we still had a king to lead us, a king who was willing to free our homeland from the dragon.”

“And where is your king now?” Bilbo asked.

There was a silence, the dwarves shooting some awkward, mostly amused, glances at each other. Oin shook his head. “Ring, who’s looking for a ring?” He grumbled to himself.

Balin smiled in a grandfatherly way and gestured across the room. “May I present to you Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain.”

Bilbo’s mouth fell open and he gaped at Thorin. _A king? That rude dwarf was a king? Oh--!_ Bilbo felt himself flush. _Oh, but I called him rude to his face!_ Bilbo was too stunned to look away from the dwarf king’s gaze. Embarrassment not yet penetrating his brain to force him to look away. Thorin held his gaze steadily, finally letting out a huff of air from his nose and turning away first. Bilbo blinked, freed from those magnetic blue eyes. _Oh, but if he’s a king, that makes--_ He whipped around to look at Fili and Kili-- _Are those two royalty as well?_ He felt most unsettled by that revelation.

_Return what you have stolen from me!_

Bilbo sat up straight. “So, you stole back your stone from the dragon.”

Balin blinked in surprise. Kili groaned. “He was just getting to it. That’s the good part. Let him tell it.” He whined.

Balin shook his head. “To make a long story short, we found a secret way into Erebor to steal the stone, but we woke the dragon and ever he will pursue us to regain it.”

Something clicked in Bilbo’s head. “A secret way? Do you mean the same way you all got into my home? And how we got here?”

Balin’s eyes twinkled. He obviously enjoyed speaking with someone who was so quick to catch on. “Aye. Do you remember that map?”

That marvelous map of Middle Earth, ever moving, ever changing. Oh, how Bilbo wished he could take another look at it, study it properly in the tranquility of his library. “It is magical, then?” He asked.

Balin hesitated and looked to Thorin.

Thorin answered. “It is magical in itself, but what it shows is not magic but holes in time. When the song of Arda was sung,” he clarified on seeing Bilbo’s confused look, “it was not complete. There was disharmony, and it manifested itself in these imperfections. The holes were mapped and it was later found that they could be used as doorways between the past and the present.”

Bilbo sat in awe, a small smile involuntarily curling up the corners of his mouth. He shook his head in wonder. “Where did you get such a map?”

The question was asked rhetorically, Bilbo simply wondering how such a marvelous thing could even exist, but at his query Thorin shifted uncomfortably, the other dwarves suspiciously casting their eyes away, pretending they had not been listening in at all. Only one, Ori’s brother Nori, cracked his knuckles and looked mightly pleased with himself.

“Where did you get it from?” Bilbo asked again.

Thorin looked away but answered sharply. “It belonged to a wizard.”

Bilbo’s head shot up. “Not one with a gray hat and scarf!”

Thorin frowned, puzzled. “No. The Tower of Orthanc in Isengard where the White Wizard dwells.”

“He really let you take his map?” Bilbo asked, nose wrinkled. Such a valuable tool to just let anyone waltz in and hand it over to them.

“Not precisely. We…borrowed the map…without his permission.”

“You stole--! You stole from Saruman the Wise!”

“Tch, _wise_. It wasn’t easy sneaking past a wizard, but with not even a lock on the door.” Nori shook his head in bemusement.

“You stole this map.” Bilbo still could not quite wrap his head around it. “From a powerful, magical wizard, who could possible turn you all into hermit crabs.” He pivoted to look at each dwarf in turn. “Who came up with that harebrained plan?”

One by one, the company’s eyes turned to Thorin, who crossed his arms over his chest.

 _Ah._ Bilbo was beginning to see a pattern. More importantly though. “Where’s the Arkenstone now?”

Several sets of eyes looked around at each other.

“Nori gave it to Thorin, and Thorin gave it to Balin,” Fili started, slowly. “But then Balin handed it to Kili.”

“But I needed to stop and shoot the dragon, so I gave it to Dwalin--” Kili added, miming nocking an arrow.

“And I gave it to Gloin ‘cause he has bigger pockets--” Dwalin interrupted.

“Don’t you go blamin’ me!” Gloin growled. “I handed it to Bombur because he’s the fastest.”

Bombur twidled his fingers and looked down. “I had to go help Bofur, so I gave it to Ori.”

“But then I lost it!” Ori moaned.

“Only because I lifted it off ya,” Nori shook his head. “But Dori caught me and took it back and then--”

“--And then I would have returned it to Balin or Thorin, but Oin was closer--”

“Eh?” Oin held the ear trumpet higher. “You stop talking about my feet. I told you that fungus cleared up months ago.”

The story denigrated into shouting, the dwarves both pointing fingers at who had had the Arkenstone last while simultaneously recounting the grisly parts they had played in battling Smaug. Nori made the mistake of referring to Bombur as a “butterfingers” and thus Bofur had to leap to his brother’s defense with a shove and stating it was better than being a “sticky fingers,” wherein Dori intervened on his brother’s behalf by putting Bofur in a headlock. Then Bombur sat on Nori, and Ori tried to pull Bifur away from gnawing on Dori’s arm--

Bilbo turned away, rubbing his forehead as a dull sort of pain throbbed at his temples. “So, in other words--”

He turned back in time to see Dwalin aim a punch at Nori, who had managed to flip Bombur, trapping him on his back like a turtle, only to hit Dori, who threw Dwalin into Gloin, who roared and tackled Dwalin into the cell bars. Balin shook his head and retreated to the corner with Thorin, leaving his brother to fend off the brothers Gloin and Oin, while Ori was having some kind of hand sign argument with Bifur--Bilbo could not tell who was winning, but Ori widened his eyes and pouted and Bifur pulled him into a crushing hug…or maybe he just meant to crush Ori.

 _Dwarves._ Bilbo huffed. “So, in other words--” He tried yelling louder just when Thorin appeared to have had enough and marched forward.

“Silence!” He bellowed, shooting them all a majestic glare.

Bilbo coughed at the sudden, total silence. “So, in other words, you lost the stone.”

Blue eyes darkened at him across the cell and Bilbo had not the courage to meet Thorin’s gaze, conscious that he had all but accused the king of failure.

“The stone is lost somewhere in time.” Thorin rumbled, his voice like thunder. “But we shall find it again.” He turned his head to where the sun was setting beyond the bars of the cell. “I’ll take first watch. Get some sleep.” He ordered.

Bilbo scooted into a corner while the others claimed their bit of space, spreading out their coats and balling up whatever they had to use as a pillow. There was a brief tussle over Bofur’s hat, but he quickly retained it, and Bilbo curled up on his side facing the wall.

For the first time since this all began, Bilbo remembered the wizard. _Have you found what you’ve been looking for, Bilbo Baggins?_ Wasn’t that just like a wizard to say something so obscure and obtuse that one could turn the phrase round and round to find meaning only to realize there was none. What was Bilbo suppose to be looking for? That Arkenstone the dwarves went on about? Was Bilbo suppose to search for it?

The next thought followed quickly on the first’s heels. Had the old man known these dwarves would arrive at his house? Had he, dare Bilbo think it, even had a hand in their appearance?

_That crazy old man may have really been a wizard!_

In the dusky twilight, Thorin began to hum lowly, and his voice was joined one by one by the others.

_“Far over the misty mountains cold…”_

The low baritone soothed the hobbit in a way nothing else could, and with adventure and kingdoms and treasure and dragons thrumming in his veins, he finally nodded off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't had a day off from work in forever, and tendonitis has not been condusive to typing. I promise action in the next chapter.


	4. A Time of War II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This city will fall.”

Bilbo awoke with a start, heart pounding. He froze, ears pricked, but could not detect what had awakened him so suddenly. Alert and knowing it would be impossible to get back to sleep, he sat up, gingerly, back stiff from lying on stone.

Bombur was awake, speaking to Bofur in low tones, their conversation a pleasant murmur. Looking about, Bilbo saw that the only other dwarf up was Nori who was doing a sort of complicated hand exercise where he made a small stone disappear up his sleeve and reappear in his palm. He caught Bilbo looking and proceeded to make a show of pulling the stone out of Ori’s nose and Dori’s hair, both still soundly asleep. Bilbo stifled a giggle and looked away. One of them must be on watch. The other dwarves were still resting, Gloin’s rattling snores running counter to Balin’s wiffly breaths. Fili and Kili were slumped on either side of their uncle like two overgrown puppies. Thorin’s chin was tucked to his chest and Bilbo thought the sight of the three of them oddly endearing.

At last, thinking that it was his own dreams that had startled him into wakefulness, Bilbo stretched and lay back again when he heard it.

“What was that?” He exclaimed shooting straight up.

Bombur and Bofur looked at him oddly but strained to listen to hear what Bilbo had heard.

_boom._

It was faint, and far off, threatening like thunder, but nothing so natural. Bilbo saw Dwalin twitch and Balin’s whiffling ceased. Thorin did not stir but his eyes opened, and they too listened.

_Boom._

Again. A long pause between. Bofur and Bombur stood and Nori sat up, dislodging his brother as he cocked his head to catch the sound. Bilbo began to count the beats of his heart in the silence and another shortly followed.

_BOOM._

The floor trembled beneath his feet and it shook the dust from the corners of their cell. Any dwarf that was still asleep bolted up like those who had been trained to be fully alert at a moment’s trouble. Fili and Kili pressed close to their uncle’s sides.

Thorin got to his feet and announced. “The city is about to fall. Come.”

Bilbo sputtered as the other dwarves quickly leapt to follow his lead. “Wh--But how do you know?”

“This may be our only chance to escape. If we take advantage of the chaos, they will not stop us from finding the next portal.” Thorin addressed the group, eyes flicking momentarily over Bilbo, and Bilbo’s objections stuttered to a halt. There in that glance was that magnetism that set Thorin apart. He took responsibility for the others and they in turn gave him their loyalty. It was obvious his company would follow Thorin through eternity and back. And with that one look, Bilbo felt as if he had just been added on to the company, and the thought sent his flustered heart tripping.

Thorin sent a quick hand sign to Dwalin, and the two took up positions pressed against the wall on either side of the door.

The guards, having also heard the ominous booms, reasonably came to check on their prisoners. The two drew close to the bars, peering into the murky pre-dawn light to count the dwarves. Dwalin and Thorin struck simultaneously.

Bilbo winced as the dwarves each grabbed an elf by the arm and pulled them so their heads clunked against the bars. Dwalin hooked an arm around his guard before he fell and Thorin searched his belt.

“No keys.” Thorin glowered.

Dwalin dropped the elf with an unceremonious _thud_. Nori began pulling long metal pins out of his hair He jammed his arm through the bars and went to work on the lock. “Guards are never obliging enough to keep the keys on them. Nope. Must be doing things the hard way.”

Thorin turned to the company. “What weapons do we have left?”

Fili pulled out a pair of knives from behind his hood, handing one to Kili, Bofur pulled a chisel from his hat, and Ori produced his slingshot from his boot. Dori snapped a bracelet from around his wrist and unthreaded the metal balls, handing them off to Ori for ammo. He then took a set of knitting needles from his sleeves.

Dwalin cracked his knuckles. “We'll fair no better than a kitten in this fight. Still, we’ll leave those elves with more than just scratches.”

“If we find the portal before they find us, they’ll be no need for a fight.” Balin reminded his brother.

The lock clicked and Nori popped open the door with a cheeky salute to Thorin. Thorin immediately stripped the guards of their weapons. One sword and a dagger. Thorin handed the sword off to Dwalin, who seemed as if he were about to protest, but an exchange of glances with Thorin and he accepted the sword. Thorin kept the elvish dagger, small and ridiculously delicate in his powerful hands.

With a nod, they split up. Ori, Nori, Bofur and Bifur each headed down a passageway. Fili and Kili scouted ahead in the main hallway. The others stayed clustered together in a battle formation, Thorin handing the map to Balin while he lead the group, clutching the pilfered dagger.

Nori returned first. “Down here. I found a mark on the wall. The portal must be nearby.” He shifted. “I don’t like this. It’s too easy and too quiet. I ain’t seen hide nor hair of any other guards.”

Balin grabbed hold of Thorin’s arm. “Your dagger.” He pointed.

Bilbo near gasped. The elvish dagger was now dimly glowing a pale blue in the dark tunnels.

Thorin turned the dagger over, inspecting it with a critical eye. “Some sort of elvish magic bonded to the steel. What could it mean? A warning of some kind?”

Then the tale of Gondolin came trickling back to Bilbo. “The Gates of Summer,” he murmured, catching Thorin’s attention. “They were all busy with the festival. They’ll be caught completely unawares.”

Thorin nodded sharply, striding quickly down the hall. “Then they won’t note our escape.”

Bilbo gaped. His began to jog to catch up, his feet placing himself directly barring Thorin’s path. “B--but shouldn’t we do something? We should warn them--”

“This city _will_ fall.” Thorin stated. Bilbo never felt so helpless as he did facing this unalterable fact. Of course Gondolin would fall. That was how the story ended. And yet--

Whatever Thorin read in Bilbo’s face, an answering hint of regret flickered in his countenance before he was once again firm, yet he could not fully meet Bilbo’s gaze. “There is nothing we can do.” He spoke softly.

Bilbo nodded once and allowed himself be lead back through the twisting underground network of tunnels. The thrumming _booms_ reverberated through the stone halls, as if they were in the barrel of a drum, and Bilbo became aware of a muffled sussuration that only grew louder and more distinct as they continued toward it, yet he could not name the collection of noises until they emerged into the pale morning sunlight.

Bilbo was yanked backwards, wishing he had shut his eyes but could not blot out what he had seen. The din was the sound of steel on steel, of clarion calls, and the screams of dying elves as their armor was sliced through and their bodies rent, and the senseless roar of orcs. The company attempted to retreat back into the shadowy tunnels, but they had already been spotted.

Balin, Gloin, and Oin surged forward to pick up any weapons that lay on the bloodstained cobbles, slashing at the group of orcs. Gloin took up a long, curved sword and sliced off an orc’s head in one fluid swoop. Oin picked up a spear and Balin an axe. Fili and Kili rushed with their daggers brandished, but Dwalin and Thorin pushed them back and charged in, Dwalin with just his knuckle dusters and Thorin with that delicate elvish dagger.

Bilbo had never witnessed bloodshed but could not look away as the dwarves fell into a deadly dance with the orcs. Each one a hair’s breadth from danger at the end of an black tainted blade, but the fighting was all over too quickly to account for who had done what. All that remained was that the orcs lay dead and his dwarves sustained only small injuries.

The sun was suddenly blotted out above their heads, and they retreated back into the tunnels. A great scaled belly came crawling over, and Bilbo froze, incapable of even flinching when Kili’s fingers dug into his arm. They all held their breath as it slithered overhead, white stone walls crumbling underneath its claws. It roared, breathing out a great, icy wind. Its scales green and spines black, belly scraping along. But it did not see them. The beast turned its head, eyes burning black and descended onto another part of the city where the screams began in earnest from that quarter.

 _Not Smaug._ Fear must have been making Bilbo giddy if he were relieved that this dragon was not _the dragon_. Whether it breathed fire or not, a dragon was still a dragon.

“How far to the portal?” Thorin whispered to Balin.

Balin consulted the map and shook his head. “Just across the courtyard. But we’ll be exposing ourselves to attack.”

Bilbo peeked at the map. Gondolin had grown much larger in scale, becoming the focus of the entire map, the rings of the city walls laid out viewed from above. The level they were on seemed to glow brighter. Balin pointed to a wide open space, the decorative illumination of a fountain in the center, and on the other side, a glowing rune.

Thorin's face was a grim mask. “We have no choice.”

Balin nodded and folded the map into the inside pocket of his robe and took up an orc blade, caked with blood.

Thorin himself grabbed a mace, briefly comparing its heft to the dagger. He glanced at Bilbo and turned the hilt toward the hobbit.

“Take it.”

Bilbo sputtered. “I don’t know how to use it.”

“It’s the right size for you. Learn quickly.”

The dagger's hilt poked into his chest and Bilbo clasped it reflexively. He was not given another chance to protest, Thorin swirling away to lead the charge. Bilbo had a moment to admire the blade. It was beautifully decorated, the elvish script glowing bright blue. It was lighter than he expected in his hands. While holding a weapon did not make him feel braver, Bilbo was not as frightened of it as he thought he would be. Perhaps it was the elvish magic woven into the steel that had a calming affect on its bearer. Or else his good sense had finally taken a holiday, leaving Bilbo unsuspecting as to how much peril he was to face.

“Just mind you don’t cut one of ours’ heads off.” Bofur jostled Bilbo out of his thoughts with a bump to his shoulder. He wielded some sort of mangled orc club and waved in as an example. “No hacking, whacking or fancy twirling. Just jab and slice. Jab and slice.”

 _Jab and slice._ Bilbo mouthed the words before giving Bofur a narrow look. This dwarf looked more like a laborer than a weapons expert. A poke to his back drew his attention toward Bifur. Bifur garbled something then, brandishing his boar spear, jabbed and sliced.

 _Well._ Bilbo blinked. _All right then._

Bilbo spotted Thorin near the head of the group, turned back and frowning at Bofur. He motioned his nephews closer. “Guard the rear.” Bilbo heard him command before lowering his voice. “Stay close to the Halfling.” Bilbo resisted the urge to roll his eyes in frustration. Honestly! He was not a big dwarven warrior, but he was far from a helpless fauntling. Nevertheless, he nodded at the troublesome boys when they took up positions behind him, grinning all the while.

_At least someone’s having fun._

They rushed along in familiar pairs of twos and threes. Ducking into alcoves and behind pillars and rubble, avoiding both elves as well as orcs, unsure of their captor’s reaction on discovering escaped prisoners. Bilbo’s heart was in his throat, lungs puffing hard to keep up. The blood thrummed in his ears, adding to the roar of battle. He wished he could just disappear. Wake up safely back in his bed, all of this just another dream. A lone warg-riding orc barreled across their path. Dwalin charged, but the rider turned tail, crying for backup. Kili scrambled atop a heap of rubble, spun his dagger and let it fly. His aim was true and the orc tumbled off. The warg threw back its head and howled, and Fili's dagger lanced through its neck. Too late.

“Run! Make for the portal!” Thorin shouted.

They scattered as a detachment of orcs fell upon them, each dwarf forced into their own skirmishes. Bilbo leapt back as his vision filled with teeth, a warg snapping its jaws mere inches from his nose. On reflex he brought his sword up and nicked the beast’s jawbone. It whined and threw back its head, tossing the orc from its back. A blow from Balin’s axe took care of the stunned orc, while Bifur dispatched the warg with a well-aimed thrust spearing its flanks. The rest of the battle passed in a whirl. Bilbo did not know if his blows landed as he wildly swung the blade about him, managing to keep his enemy far enough away. He could not later brag of any heroic deeds or how many orcs he slew. Too soon his arms grew tired and his strokes lethargic. When a hand clamped upon his upper arm, he barely had the strength to shrug it off and turn his sword toward the offender. It was easily parried.

“First rule of battle: don’t knock off your friends.” Dwalin growled and stood back to back with Bilbo.

The dwarf’s solid presence renewed Bilbo’s determination to keep up with the warrior and guard his back in return.

There was a wretched shriek from some orc and their enemies began to scatter and flee. Bilbo gave up a cheer, thinking somehow, the battle was won. Tumbling over each other like waves breaking upon the rocks, orcs crawled over one another to get away. Arrows from elvish bows rained down upon them, but it was not from this they fled. Their movements were not in panic nor from fear. As Bilbo watched, he realized the orcs were not retreating, they were clearing a path.

From the ruined gates, Bilbo could see only darkness. But the longer he stared, the more it seemed as if the darkness were writhing. And then the shadows took shape in fire and flame, and Bilbo’s blood ran cold as he was hit with a sudden, instinctual fear.

Bilbo did not resist as he was pulled down behind the broken remains of a wall where the others had already taken cover. There he was passed off to another pair of hands, and Bilbo pressed himself to the cold stone, sweat sticking his curls to his temples, and the weight of another body bearing down on him, shielding him from the flames. It was if time had slowed. A lock of dark hair fell against his cheek. Thorin’s hand was at his waist, his chest to Bilbo’s back. He looked down at Bilbo and nodded. Bilbo swallowed hard and returned the nod shakily. Thorin moved on to Dwalin, and the air rushed back into Bilbo’s lungs, hot, dry, and foul. There was a chink in the wall, their only defense standing between them and that dark creature. Bilbo scrambled to it, pressing his eye to the gap. He had to see. He needed to see what it was.

The creature wore the shape of a man, but fire streamed from it and its form was swathed in dark shadows. It lifted its arm and brought down its whip with a _crack_ , rending the air like lightening. Bilbo’s heart quailed. He leaned heavily against the wall, unable to find his feet, while terror the likes he had never known plunged its claws into his heart. The darkness swirled around it, spreading out like black wings to block the sun. The flaming whip came down again _crack!_ tearing down a line of silver-armored elves like paper dolls.

 _A Balrog,_ a still-coherent part of Bilbo’s mind supplied a name for the evil, but having a word for the creature did not lessen its affect on him nor abate the rapid pounding of his heart. _We’re doomed. How can anyone face such a foul thing?_

Then, as if in answer to Bilbo’s plea, one tall elf strode forth, a gleaming silver spike on his helm. A sword clasped in his hand, a shield with the sigil of a fountain raised before him, he stood alone against the Balrog like a hero out of legend.

Bilbo wanted to weep as he watched the lone elf walking towards the flames.

“Run!” Thorin barked out the order somewhere to his side.

Bilbo’s feet were fixed to the stone. His knees locked. He felt like a rabbit caught in a snare. He could not run if his life depended on it. The elf’s sword ripped through the shadows, tearing at dark wings. The Balrog bellowed its displeasure and brought down its whip of flame again and again upon the elf’s shield until it was singed black.

“Go now while it’s distracted!”

Thorin shoved at his back and finally Bilbo staggered forward. Somehow, his legs acted even without his brain to direct them and he darted across the ravaged remains of the courtyard with the others.

“Thorin!”

“Uncle!”

Bilbo glanced over his shoulder at Kili’s cry. Thorin had remained at the rear and was falling further behind. The elf had lost his shield, a warped, smoldering wreck and used his sword to counter the whip. The whip wrapped around the sword and the elf jerked it from the Balrog’s claws.

“Keep going!” Thorin ordered. “I’ll catch up.” And he turned back toward the battle.

Fili began to follow with a wordless cry. Bilbo seized his sleeve and pulled him back, grasping his other hand out to take hold of Kili just in case he would go after his brother and uncle. Kili’s eyes were wide, the muscles of his arm trembling beneath Bilbo’s fingers but he made no move to follow. Though Bilbo had not the actual strength to restrain these two dwarves had they been determined, somehow he tugged them behind some cover.

With a running leap, the elf warrior charged the creature and kicked out his legs. He hooked his legs around the Balrog and with the strength of desperation, plunged his sword into the foul creature’s chest. The Balrog bellowed in pain, the elf’s body tipping them both into the fountain, the waters hissed and steamed as the Balrog’s body hit, bubbling over in turbulent waves.

The creature of shadow lay vanquished in the fountain. The elf bearing the fountain sigil struggled to pull himself off his opponent. The water sloshed around his legs, further throwing him off balance, his armor smoking. The elf yanked his sword from the beast in one last burst of effort, and fell onto the lip of the fountain, sword clattering over the edge onto the cobbles, and the warrior lay dead.

In that moment of stillness, Thorin darted forth, scooped up the discarded sword and ran back.

“Come on!” He growled as he passed Fili, Kili, and Bilbo.

“Y-you, but you--” Bilbo’s head whipped back and forth between the dead elf warrior and Thorin.

“No time!”

“But you--”

“The portal is closing!”

That got Bilbo running after the dwarves. No respectable Baggins was going to be trapped in the past surrounded by orcs and dragons and even worse creatures. He caught up to Thorin who was ushering his nephews through the portal, still very much open and did not look in the least like it was about to close. Clutching the stitch in his side, Bilbo managed to look at Thorin indignantly and puff out:

_“You stole his sword?!”_

Thorin rolled his eyes and shoved Bilbo into the abyss.

_The impropriety of it all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the short chapter. I really struggled with writing the fight scenes, but I hope everyone enjoys.


	5. A Time to Plant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You said you lost the Arkenstone somewhere in time. I take it that it’s a beautiful, glowing rock of some sort?”

“You stole his sword?” Bilbo exclaimed, dumbfounded.

The portal had dumped them off on a narrow, crooked path in the middle of a forest. The trees were so tall and so dense, no sunlight penetrated the canopy and the air itself was still and thick and stuffy.

Thorin frowned at the hobbit trotting alongside him as they picked their way over broken cobbles. The path must have once been a much-used thoroughfare, now appearing to have been abandoned for decades as the woods took it back over. Thorin had simply looked both ways down the path and pointed his boots in one direction, the others falling in line behind him.

“He no longer needed it. The city would have been sacked. Orcs would have taken much for their plunder but could never wield a weapon of elvish make. Orcrist the Goblin-Cleaver, with the remainder of Gondolin’s treasures, would have been scattered across Eriador only to end up in a troll hoard.”

Bilbo gaped in confusion, squinting up at Thorin. “Why do you say a troll hoard? That seems oddly specific.”

A smile quirked the corner of his mouth and Thorin clasped the hilt of the blade most fondly. “Because…that’s where I first found it, so long ago.”

He pulled ahead to scout the path without another word, leaving Bilbo to puzzle over his words. Was it a riddle? Bilbo was awfully fond of riddles as a youth, but he could not make this one out. If Thorin had possession of this sword before, but he knew of its fate after--then had he found it in the future before retaking it in the past?

“Bother and confusticate these dwarves,” Bilbo muttered, shaking off the start of a headache. The scabbard housing Bilbo’s dagger knocked his thigh with every odd step. He released it an inch and sighed at relief at the lack of glow. Thorin had called his sword Orcrist, Goblin-Cleaver. Great swords were named for their great deeds. Bilbo had seen one such deed for himself. Even if he did not approve of Thorin’s own pillaging, well…

He glanced up at Thorin. The blade did seem to suit the dwarf as if it were meant for him.

Bilbo ducked his head as the dwarf king’s gaze swung back over the group, the tips of his ears turning red as if he were some naughty fauntling caught pinching pipeweed. He tucked the dagger against his side and smiled wryly down at it. _I shall have to find a name for you, small as we both may be compared to this great, frightful world._

The forest was--Bilbo wrinkled his nose but the appropriate word jumped to mind--sick. It reminded him of his pumpkins when a worm had infested the vine. The vine may survive for a long time even with the worm rotting from the inside. The color of the trees’ leaves were off, the _smell_ was off. The air was too still and too quiet. Bilbo strained to listen but he could not hear the chirping of birds nor the rustling of underbrush that signaled the flight of a rabbit or squirrel. And yet…

Bilbo shuddered with the distinct feeling that they were being watched. Akin to the forest around Buckland, but not the same. It was not the trees that were watching, but something else. Something that could silence bird and beast. Bilbo caught movement out of the corner of his eye and stopped to squint into the underbrush for its source. He was so intent on this that he only half heard the dwarves’ discussion.

Dwalin huffed, kicking the broken cobbles. “No idea where we’re goin’, or where this bloody path will lead us.”

“It’s either this or hack through the brush. Do you wish to dull your axe on trees, brother?” Balin chided.

Dwalin snorted, cradling his axe almost protectively. “With him leadin’, we could take a straight line round in circles.”

Thorin scowled, halting the group. “Fine. Who wants to do a bit of climbing?”

The company regarded the trees nervously.

“Master Baggins is the lightest. We’ll send the halfling up, if he’s amenable.”

Hearing his name drew Bilbo’s attention back to the others, but the next word surprised him.

“Halfling?” Bilbo repeated, bemused. He then startled everyone by bursting out laughing, his voice like a tinkling bell of joy in the dark, drear forest.

“Did something say amuse you?” Thorin demanded, his face darkening.

“Oh my, excuse me.” Bilbo wiped tears from the corners of his eyes through the last of his chuckles. “It’s just-- _halfling_.”

Thorin frowned. At an earlier point in their acquaintance, Bilbo would have thought the dwarf angry, but now could tell that he was more confused with a touch of hurt pride. “That is what I have heard the men of Dunland call your people.”

“Yes, but do you know why men call us halflings?” Bilbo grinned. “It is because we are _half the size_ of men. Hearing a _dwarf_ say halfling, well…”

He turned to the others. Bilbo was standing nearest to Ori, who was only slightly taller, and Balin, who was eye-level with Bilbo. Balin’s eyes twinkled as he hid his amusement in his thick beard.”

“I’m not sure what I am half of by dwarf standards. Strength? Facial hair?”

Bofur gawfed. “It’s not wits nor words, master _hobbit_.” He winked.

The dwarves chuckled along, though it was not particularly funny. Whether they understood Bilbo’s joke or not, it had lightened the mood from the oppressive trees. They started along the path, Gloin thumping Bilbo on the back as he passed, and Bilbo was surprised to find himself bringing up the end of the line alongside Thorin himself. They walked in silence a few yards before Thorin spoke.

“I meant no disrespect,” he rumbled in a low tone that the others would not hear.

“And none was taken.” Bilbo was quick to reassure. It seemed that Thorin was so quick to take slight at the smallest offense that he imagined others did likewise. Or perhaps all dwarves were so thin-skinned.

Eager to take advantage of a quiet moment to converse with Thorin, Bilbo quickly steered the next question back to the dwarves’ quest.

“How long have you been searching for the Arkenstone?”

“We have journeyed long. I have seen the caves of Menegroth in the First Age, delved by the dwarves of Nogrod.” His brow darkened at the memory “I have also seen my people slain as they fled the Thousand Caves at the hands of elves. I have seen the first load of stone carved out of the great halls of Khazad-dum, and Narvi lay his craft upon the doors as well as the dark days when they were driven from that kingdom. My company has walked Middle Earth before even Durin himself awoke.” Thorin looked ahead at the line of dwarves, and Bilbo could see him pick out each one, making sure to check on Fili and Kili both first and last before he was satisfied. “There have been many doors and many paths, and if one travels them long enough, events and places begin to fold in on themselves.” He touched the hilt of the sword as if seeking security. “One door led us straight into a troll hoard where this sword had laid idle for centuries. It was taken from me in the halls of the king of Mirkwood. I should be surprised that it has come to me again, but in truth, I am not.”

Bilbo’s mind raced. _How many places had they seen?_ And yet Thorin seemed to take little delight in any of it. An idea struck him and he flexed his fingers as if he could pluck his next words from the air.

“You speak only of the past. What of the future? Can’t you go there to see if you ever find the Arkenstone? Perhaps to ask someone where it is?”

Thorin frowned. “Those paths are barred and no mortal may enter.”

Bilbo pursed his lips together, reluctant to point out that there was one race at least that was not mortal who might help, but he had seen at how Thorin had snarled at the elves in Gondolin. There was a deep suspicion and hatred between elves and dwarves that lay in the marrow of their shared histories. Thorin had even brought up the Battle of the Thousand Caves, a story only known to Bilbo because of its connection to the epic tale of the Simarils.

Bilbo blinked. _Silmarils._

“You said you lost the Arkenstone somewhere in time. I take it that it’s a beautiful, glowing rock of some sort?”

Balin looked over his shoulder, obviously having been listening in on their conversation, grimacing in pain at that description. “It is the most beautiful of all jewels, the heart of the mountain. It shines with a inner radiance so bright as to rival the stars.”

Bilbo nodded. “So, one could assume that should such a gem be found, it would attract a lot of attention?”

Balin looked at him with interest. Thorin frowned, brows pulling together in thought.

“And seeing how it bares a passing similarity to other legendary jewels--let’s say Silmarils-- we could assume someone who had never seen a Silmaril before might have picked it up and--”

“The stories.” Thorin interrupted, eyes widening. “The Nauglamir.”

Bilbo huffed. “I was getting to that.”

“If we choose a point in history where there was a record of a Silmaril, or another great jewel…” Thorin trailed off, looking to Bilbo with wonder and not an insignificant amount of hope.

Bilbo opened his mouth and clicked it shut. He realized all the dwarves were staring at him now and he shuffled his feet, cheeks heating up. “It’s just an idea.” He shrugged.

The brush rustled violently again, suddenly nearer. The group startled, jumping to form a circle.

“Er, Uncle?”

Bilbo turned at Kili’s voice, and was brought up short by an arrow tip aimed straight at his nose. Kili was much in the same predicament, a red-haired elf aiming her weapon at an unarmed and unprepared Kli. Silently, more elves had slipped out of the forest, the rustling having been a distraction while they surrounded their prey. And prey was what Bilbo felt like. These elves seemed much different from those of Gondolin. While those elves were sleek and elegant, these elves were fierce and lean like hungry wolves. Bilbo would be as good in a fight against them as a little bunny.

“What have we here?” A low, refined voice carried. A tall, regal elf with long flaxen hair slipped past his soldiers, his silver robes whispering in the grass. He looked down his nose with eyes of chipped ice. He was made taller by the crown of woven branches and autumn leaves surmounting his noble brow.

Thorin’s face twisted into an ugly scowl, but he did not speak.

“I wondered how you escaped from my dungeons.” The elf continued to speak with an air of one who did not care, though his eyes flicked over each of the dwarves with cold calculation before falling upon Orcrist, and a wave of fury rippled over his features.

 _Escaped from--? King of --Mirkwood!_ Bilbo barely held himself from smacking a palm to his face and groaning. _Of all the confounded bad luck._

“Thranduil.” Thorin rumbled, his tone barely civil. “It was my intent never to enter your realm again.”

“And yet here I find you, trespassing, again.” King Thranduil paced in front of his soldiers’ arrows as if oblivious to the standoff. “And you still have not explained yourselves.” Something caught the elf king’s eye and he nodded. One of his elves broke rank to snatch the pack off Nori’s back, slitting it open with her knife and dumping the contents on the ground. The objects clanged and pinged off the stones, shining dully in the gloom. The elf scooped up a candlestick and offered it to her king.

“Made in Gondolin,” Thranduil enunciated, sneering at the bottom of the candlestick.

Dori slowly turned with an accusing glare. “Nori!”

“Trespassers and _thieves._ ” The elf king hissed the word.

Thorin’s fingers clenched around the hilt of his sword. The red-haired elf turned her bow on Thorin. Bilbo gulped.

This time when the brush rustled, what emerged was not more elves.

Bilbo saw flailing, spindly legs connected to a bloated body come flying out of the undergrowth to take down two elves, one discharging his arrow vainly into the earth. The red-haired elf called out a command and the others whipped around to face this new threat, simultaneously moving to shield their king.

Then more giant spiders sprang from the trees. Arrows flew up to meet them, but a second wave quickly took their place before the elves could nock.

Bilbo went for his sword when Balin smacked the map into his chest.

“Hold onto this, lad.” He brandished his axe, and the dwarves found themselves fighting side by side with the elves.

Bilbo stumbled back. “Now see here--” Venomous fangs filled his vision, and he fumbled for his dagger. Bilbo jabbed, barely keeping the spider at bay, and then Bombur rolled onto it, trapping it in a head lock while Bifur, Dwalin, and Gloin each grabbed a leg and pulled until the spider squealed and the legs yanked free with a _pop._

“Find the portal!” Bofur yelled to Bilbo, smashing in the side of another spider’s face.

 _Oh! Right._ Bilbo quickly opened the map, backing up until he was against a tree and shuffling the map and dagger between his hands. There was Mirkwood. Bilbo snorted. They weren’t even that far from the edge of the forest. And there was the path. Bilbo frowned. The path faded in and out as it wound through the forest, as if something were interfering with the map’s magic. He could see no rune for a portal.

“Oh, dear,” he muttered. Glancing up, Kili had crawled onto Fili’s shoulders and launched himself at a spider from above, stabbing two shattered arrows into its body. Oin swept his longspear under a spider’s legs, tripping it before twirling it over his head, blade arcing and taking out the threads of several hanging spiders.

“Found it yet?” Oin shouted to Bilbo.

“Working on it!” Bilbo called back.

Oin cackled. “You can have all the pickles you want when we win!”

 _No idea._ Bilbo shook his head and returned to the map. _Wait...there!_

It was faint and faded out almost as soon as Bilbo spotted it, but he stared at the map until he caught it again. There was the rune. The portal was near!

Bilbo began to walk, finger pointing directly to the rune so he would not loose his spot, glancing up to weave his way through the battle, as he followed the map. The sounds of the battle faded as he left the path, muffled by the thick trees.

“A few paces more and it should be right…here.” Bilbo looked up, squinting into the gloom. There was no portal. Bilbo turned in a circle, before scrutinizing the map again.

“Right here.” He paced back and forth a few paces. The rune had disappeared from the map again, and Bilbo growled in frustration. “I don’t understand. It should be right here!” He stamped his foot.

Suddenly, the rune glowed bright on the map and a black portal appeared exactly before him.

“That’s better!” Bilbo smiled. _Now, to get the dwarves through before it disappeared again_ , he thought, glancing down at the map. He started. There he could see, like a shadow creeping in around the edges, the shape of fire and wings. _Cheese and crackers!_ Bilbo had forgotten all about Smaug. He quickened his pace. If the dragon were still hounding them, then it could arrive here at any time. Bilbo would not wish the wrath of dragon fire upon anyone. Even toffee-nosed elven kings

Bilbo sped back to the path. The battle was still going strong. The spiders had broken though the elves defenses and even Thranduil had to unsheathe his sword, joining in the deadly dance. The elves moved constantly, untiringly, but Bilbo’s dwarves were flagging. They had had little time to rest from one battle to the next, and even Mahal’s children hewn of rock could tire.

Bombur shuffled by, a long spider’s thread stuck to his foot, and Bilbo had an idea.

He grabbed the thread and tugged. The strand pulled taunt and Bilbo reeled Bombur in. He quickly tied the thread around Bombur’s large waist, attempting to outline his plan.

“I found it. The portal is over there--” He tried to gesture in the general direction. “You get their first and--make sure that portal doesn’t close!--while I--I’ll take this and--” He waved the thread in Bombur’s confused face. Bilbo slapped Bombur’s shoulder. “Go!”

Bombur took off at a run into the forest, thread trailing behind him. Bilbo quickly ducked and bobbed through the fight, making loops in the cord. As he reached each dwarf in turn, he roped one after another, around Dwalin’s wrist, Dori’s waist, Fili’s arm.

Fili glanced down at the spider’s thread and back to Bilbo in confusion. “Wha--?” Was all he got out before the cord pulled taunt and dragged him into the forest.

“Follow them!” Bilbo shouted to Kili, Balin, Bofur and Bifur as he hooked Ori, Oin, and Gloin in succession, until he held the end of the line.

 _Who am I missing?_ The line began to pull him in. _Of course._ Bilbo hooked his arm through the crook of Thorin’s elbow, sword raised high, and the dwarf king stumbled after the hobbit.

“Portal!” Bilbo said as explanation. Thorin only nodded and hurried along. They broke through the trees and saw Gloin disappear through the portal, thread trailing after him, as Bilbo and Thorin plunged through.

　

Tauriel stabbed her knife into a spider’s head, pulling it out and throwing it into another. She took a moment to breathe and assess. Circled around the path was a ring of dead spiders, the remnants skittering off into the trees.

“After them.” She ordered, and a group of elves leapt into the branches, giving chase. Tauriel went to retrieve her dagger, scanning the scene. There was no sign of dwarves, dead or otherwise.

Thranduil wiped his sword on a cloth, returning it to its sheath. He breathed deeply and composed himself back into a king.

Tauriel joined him. “The dwarves have escaped us again.”

“It is no matter.” Thranduil replied coolly. “So long as they do not return again.”

“Do you think those dwarves, are they connected to Erebor?” Tauriel asked tentatively.

Thranduil waved dismissively. “Tauriel, you think that such a small band would dare try to retake Erebor? The dragon yet sleeps within the mountain. They would not dare to waken its wrath.”

An elf jumped down from the branches, returning from hunting spiders.

“Legolas,” Tauriel greeted him. “Any sign of the dwarves?”

“I followed their trail.” His eyes narrowed. “Then it simply stopped. As if they vanished into the air.”

“Good riddance to them.” Thranduil sniffed. “Awful, stunted people.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was completely last minute because Thranduil waltzed in and demanded to play Robin Hood.


	6. Pardon me while I have a strange interlude, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Behold! the hope of Elvenland  
>  the fire of Fëanor, Light of Morn  
>  before the sun and moon were born,  
>  thus out of bondage came at last,  
>  from iron to mortal hand it passed

It was one thing to read about a tale and another thing entirely to be living it.

This was Bilbo’s thought as he eyed the unconscious man lying at their feet.

Thorin hefted a shiny, round object in his hand, eyeing it as an experienced appraiser might.

“This is nothing like the Arkenstone,” he pronounced at last, gravely, after a long silence.

“Of course it isn’t.” Bilbo huffed. The man groaned and Bilbo jumped back. “Ooooh, dear. Was it really necessary to hit him so hard?”

Bilbo flinched at a high-pitched shriek and glanced over to where Dori and Dwalin were holding an elf lady captive while Ori attempted to bind her to a tree with a ball of yarn. Poor Ori dropped the skein several times in his nervousness, while Nori was patting down the elf, searching for hidden pockets in her dress. His hands wandered near a rather sensitive spot, and the elf lady aimed a kick at his head.

“It shines with a light as splendid as the Arkenstone,” Thorin admitted with a degree of grudging admiration for a work that was not dwarven. Then his face darkened. “But it is not what we are searching for.”

“I told you it wasn’t. It’s a bloody Silmaril.” Bilbo eyed the man as he stumbled to his feet, still a bit groggy from the blow to the head Fili had given him while perched on top of Kili’s shoulders. _Beren and Luthien Tinuviel._ The saddest, most romantic tale in all of Middle Earth, and they had to go bungling into it like some sticky fingered bandits. Bilbo was tripping over himself apologizing for everything.

“Sorry.” Bilbo called over to Luthien. He repeated it to Beren “So, so very sorry.”

Beren looked at Bilbo, blinking rapidly. He shook his head as if to clear it, then stared at Bilbo in bewilderment.

Thorin sighed. “Everyone. We press on!” He barked out the order and tossed the Silmaril over his shoulder--where it landed directly into Beren’s hands. Beren blinked down at it, then at Thorin, then at the Simaril, then at Luthien, a frown cast over his handsome features.

“Wait--what--how--dwarves?”

Bilbo winced. The stories never specified that heroes had to be the most eloquent of speakers. Still, he was still muddled from that bump to the head. Luthien let out another screech as Nori prodded what must have been a highly ticklish spot. _Nightingale, indeed._

Thorin had already turned to the map, Balin looking over his shoulder. “There should be a portal appearing over here.” Thorin pointed off toward Angband, the Dark Lord’s fortress like crooked teeth cast long, foreboding shadows. Bilbo shivered.

Balin tisked. “You’ve got it upside down. The door will appear over there.” He pointed in the other direction off toward the dark, twisting woods.

From the direction Thorin pointed, a massive wolf sprang out from behind the rocks, snarling at the hoard of dwarves before the shining light of the Silmaril caught its eye.

Thorin folded the map. “We’ll go your way.” He muttered to Balin, motioning the company to edge away from the great wolf. Dwalin and Dori abruptly released their prisoner, while Ori snapped his thread and began winding up the remains back into the skein.

The dwarves plus Bilbo ran toward where their portal should hopefully appear. Bilbo chanced one last glance over his shoulder just in time to see the wolf spring and its substantial jaws close around the Silmaril and Beren’s hand. Bilbo hurriedly looked away, the blood draining from his face. A few seconds of stunned silence, then he heard the delayed scream of pain.

 _Well, that was how the story goes,_ Bilbo mused, reaching out to snag the back of Bifur’s coat so he would not be left behind as they tumbled through the opened portal.


	7. Strange Interludes Part 2, Impossible Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Didn’t these dwarves know anything of their histories?

For once they were not running from someone or into someone or being captured or having weapons poked in their faces. Bilbo could not emphasize enough how much he did not want to run into any more people, legendary or otherwise. Especially not here.

They were standing under two trees on a hill overlooking a city. One tree had dark, glossy leaves with silver underbellies. Its mate had pale, variegated leaves trimmed with gold. The dwarves were milling about underneath their branches. Bifur, Bofur and Bombur had sat down in the grass a ways away to admire the view, looking all together like a trio of Chubbs setting down for a picnic.

Both trees were shimmering with dew, but Bilbo could see that one was beginning to dim while the other was growing brighter and brighter. Dwalin reached up and grasped a leaf, bending the branch down. Bilbo cringed, but he did not tear it off, merely rubbed the leaf between his fingers, before snorting and letting the branch snap back up into its proper place.

“They glow,” Gloin rumbled, eyeing the bark suspiciously.

Bilbo rubbed his forehead. “Yes, the Two Trees of Valinor.” Silver Telperion and golden Laurelin that grew outside of Valimar in Valinor.

_Didn’t these dwarves know anything of their histories?_

“What happened to them?” Ori asked, eyes bright and tremulous.

“They were destroyed long ago. Poisoned and their life devoured. Only the last flowers of the Trees were saved and each set in their own ship to sail around the world forever at different times of the day so Middle-earth would never again be in darkness.” Bilbo recited. The lines were from a children’s book and he could still see the watercolor illustrations and hear his mother reading in a sing song voice. “The Silmarils were the only things that remained of the unsullied light of the Trees.”

Dwalin snorted and Gloin poked the trunk cautiously with the butt of his axe.

“How can we be here?” Bilbo whispered. He shivered and looked about feeling like trespassers waiting to be caught at any moment. They were rather exposed up on this hill with the city within view. Surely, someone from Valimar should have spotted them. At any moment they would raise an alarm. Bilbo was not sure he was quite ready to meet one of the Valar. Then he should truly faint.

Dwalin peered down at him, arms crossed over his barrel chest. The nearest to Bilbo, he took it upon himself to answer the hypothetical question. “While Mahal abides here, why should we not be allowed in the land where he created his children?”

Thorin wrinkled his nose. “Trees.” He said trees the same way he said elves, as if it were a dirty word.

Bilbo rolled his eyes.

“This is not the Arkenstone.” Thorin pronounced gravely.

Bilbo threw up his hands. _Honestly! That much was obvious. Dwarves!_

“We have wasted enough time lingering here. We press on.”

Bilbo sighed. For all his nerves were stretched thin, this place laid a peace upon his heart. He took one last long look at the Trees. As a hobbit, he loved grass and trees and flowers, all things growing, the same as he loved to bask in the rays of the sun or stay up late under the glowing full moon. Yavanna’s song was the trees, and the trees echoed with that song, filling Bilbo’s heart like hot mulled wine or a bowl of Old Toby.

He reached up to the leaves of Laurelin, a drop of dew sliding down onto his finger like a bead of pure golden light. Bilbo put his finger to his lip and let the dew seep onto his lips, tasting of sweet nectar.

If only he could stay in this land, for a day, for a week, a little holiday in this place that called to the weary part of him. If only he could have space and time to breathe without fear of a dragon on their tail or the seemingly endless quest for a stone.

“Bilbo!”

But his Majesty called.

“Coming!”

Bilbo sucked in a breath through his nose and sent a quick plea to any Valar who may be listening, kind Yavanna or wise Manwe. Then he jogged over to join the queue passing through the portal. Maybe next time, they would be lucky and Bilbo could get his holiday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Stares at tags. Stares at Bilbo and Thorin. Squints at tags again.*  
> We'll get there.


	8. A Time of Hate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You were lost even with a map!"  
> "You've been lost since you left home!"

Bilbo was soaking wet and exhausted as they staggered into the cave. He half-heartedly swiped at the droplets dripping down from his curls. This time, they had been deposited on the side of a mountain range, the air cold and thin, hard to breath and the wind cut through his dressing gown, which had worn thin and torn and offered little protection against the elements. And just as Bilbo resigned himself to be cold and wet and the only reassurance that it could not get much worse, then the mountains had moved.

_“Storm giants! Bless me, the legends are true!”_

Dear, sweet Bofur, and his talent for saying the worst thing at the worst time. Bilbo could have tossed the dwarf’s hat off the mountain.

The dwarves were just as exhausted as he as they slumped against each other and all but fell to the ground as if it were a feather bed. How Bilbo missed his own soft bed, goose-down pillows, and the quilt sewn by his grandmother and haphazardly patched by his own mother who was not so precise in her mending. Only Gloin was lively enough to rub his hands together and declare that he would soon have a fire going. Bilbo cheered a little at this sentiment. A merry fire would do much to cure his aching body. Now if only Gloin could conjure up a strong pot of tea and his own high-back chair. Bilbo sniffled. _Well, the fire should do for now._

Thorin could not rest, even after they had been running for so long, even when they had only just found shelter. Bilbo watched as he paced the cave from wall to wall. Past Bofur wringing out his hat and Oin pouring water out of his ear trumpet. He circled the cave like a caged beast, passing Dori trying to persuade Ori to change into a less wet shirt, past Nori and Bifur starting up an impromptu dice game, and Gloin and Dwalin quarrelling how to start a fire without adequate firewood. He hesitated near Fili and Kili, still clinging close to one another after their near call on the mountain side. Thorin’s scowl grew darker as thunder _boomed_ and shook the mountain. He swept past Bilbo, peering into the small crevices and passages from the cave, scouring the darkness for danger. And finding none, his restlessness only increased. He stopped in front of Balin and shook his head.

“We have found nothing. We have been wasting time.” Thorin glowered in Bilbo's direction.

Bilbo felt his temper flare up. “As if you lot were doing so well before. I’m sure you imagined that your precious Arkenstone was squirreled away in Bag End. Perhaps hidden in a closet or the pantry?”

Thorin’s face grew florid in his anger. The dwarf all but trembled as he clenched his jaw and twisted away. Bilbo was almost disappointed. He had geared himself up for a good row and felt inexplicably deprived. He found himself starting after Thorin when Balin took him by the arm and held him back.

“No one feels the weight of his failure more than Thorin. And no one blames himself more.” Balin placated in low tones.

A well of shame opened up in Bilbo’s chest, but he was already tired and cross and it only served to make him angry. _What should I have to feel ashamed of?_ He shrugged off Balin’s hand and raised his voice to be heard by the dwarven king across the cave.

“Then he shouldn’t take it out on those who have had little control over the circumstances.”

Thorin’s head shot up and he stormed back to loom over Bilbo.

“We should have never listened to the foolish notions of a hobbit. _I_ shouldn’t have listened. We should have followed the map--”

“Bah!“ Bilbo threw his head back. “You were lost even with a map!” Bilbo shouted. “Honestly! I should be safe at home with my feet up and a pipe of Old Toby, not lost chasing after some addle-headed dwarves on a mad quest!”

“No one asked for your company. _You’ve_ been lost since you left home.” Thorin scowled. “You should never have come.”

Bilbo felt his heart twist in his chest, but he ignored it in favor of his anger as he opened his mouth to parry the stubborn dwarf.

He only got out a gasp as the floor split open below them.

 _A portal?_ Bilbo thought frantically. But the air was knocked out of him as he hit a ledge and bounced, and they all tumbled and rolled. This was not the blackness of the abyss. This was darkness never pierced by the sun, the darkness of deep underground. Spinning round and around, Bilbo caught a glimpse of torchlight and heard shrieks. They were not alone down here. The cave had been a trap! Bilbo scrabbled for purchase to slow his fall, but he only managed to grab Bombur’s coiled braid. They slid deeper and deeper down into the mountain, until at last the earth spit them out and they landed heavily.

Bilbo fell onto Nori and bounced off, the dwarves tumbling along like baby chicks thrown out of a nest. _Oh dear, was that a cage?_

They rolled out onto a suspended bridge, and Bilbo clutched at the nearest thing to him--Bofur--who himself clutched at his beloved hat before it could tumble off his head and plummet into the depths. Bilbo scuttled away from the precipitous drop. “Where are we? Is this a dwarf city?”

“No. This place is foul,” Gloin rumbled, sniffed the air and spat. “Goblins!”

The echoes were all around them, making it impossible to tell how many or where they were coming from. Bilbo swore he saw shapes swarming over the wall like locusts. The chattering, chittering closed in on them and Bilbo could make out a song being chanted and screeched.

_"Bones will be shattered, necks will be wrung!_

_You'll be beaten and battered, from racks you'll be hung!_

_You will die down here and never be found,_

_down in the deep of Goblin Town!"_

The song dissolved back into shrieking laughter and Bilbo felt inexplicably dirty just having heard it.

In an instant, they were surrounded by hideous creatures materializing out of the flickering torchlight, stooped and malformed bodies, wielding blades of warped iron and bone. Those without weapons snapped their teeth. The dwarves knitted tightly together. They tried to push Bilbo to the back, but there was no safety. The goblins kept jostling them, hemming them in on all sides. Dwalin stepped between Bilbo and a goblin’s grasping claws, and Nori grabbed Bilbo and pulled him to the side, and Bilbo stumbled, finding himself suddenly stuck between a shriveled goblin wielding a jawbone and the ledge of the bridge. Nori glanced back and saw the unwitting danger he had placed the hobbit in.

“Bilbo!” He called, but had his own troubles as a bloated goblin swiped a rusted spear at Nori. Thorin whipped his head around at Nori’s cry, and the rest happened as if in a dream.

The shriveled goblin darted at Bilbo, swinging the jawbone. Bilbo reflexively stumbled backwards, one foot slapping solid ground, the other meeting nothing. His momentum was too great to correct. He heard a roar and saw Thorin shake off his captors and run towards him, knocking the shriveled goblin off the edge. For a moment, Bilbo was weightless and floating. It seemed as though Thorin might make it. Bilbo stretched out his hand to the dwarf. Those large, strong fingers brushed the cuff of his dressing gown, found no purchase, and everything was swallowed up by Bilbo’s sudden certainty that this was the end of his adventures. The sight of Thorin’s grief-stricken face was his last clear image as Bilbo plummeted down into the bowels of the mountain, with nothing but the distressed echoes of his friends and the gleeful shrieks of goblins to accompany his decent.

 _What a terrible way to go,_ Bilbo thought regretfully. Not that he wanted to go out in a blaze of glory, cut down in the heat of battle. He was a hobbit after all, not a warrior. If he were pressed to imagine his own death, he would have pictured a more peaceful passing, old and wrapped up in his lovely bed or quietly slipping away under the protective spread of a tree. Something neat and tidy with no surprises or loose ends to tie up, everything properly taken care of. Had he even updated his will? At least Lobelia would not get anything from Bag End, the burnt out wreck that it surely was now. But not even that thought comforted Bilbo. He would have given Lobelia all of the good silver and his mother’s best china in exchange to see the Shire one last time.

He must have blacked out, because the next moment, he jerked awake, fumbling on a bed of enormous, spongy mushrooms.

 _I take it all back. Lobelia gets nothing._ He staggered, still a bit dazed and completely unbelieving of his good luck.

He heard a rustling and ragged breathing in the dark punctuated by a wretching cough.

_“Gollum! Gollum!”_

There was just enough light to see the goblin that had fallen with him meet its gruesome fate at the hands of the strange hacking creature.

Bilbo moved as soon as he was alone, retrieving his sword, bereft of its comforting light. Then there was the ring, and a strange thing to be down here and even stranger for Bilbo to take notice of it, but it was in his pocket before he could think and he followed the raspy voice of the creature that spoke to itself.

 _“What is it, precious? Got an elfses blade Not elfs. What is it?”_ The creature rasped and lunged.

“Back, stay back. I‘m warning you.” Bilbo slashed at it, nicking the creature quite by accident.

The sinewy creature flinched from the dagger, whining miserably. “Sharp! It burns! It _stings_ us, precious.”

 _Sting. That’s as good a name as any._ Bilbo thought half-hysterically, pressing his advantage on the creature. He had done no great deeds worthy of a name. Bilbo was small--a bee, a wasp, a gnat--but anyone would warn that the smallest insect had the fiercest sting and would use it on a foe a thousand times its size.

The creature scampered back into the dark, slithering up a rock. “What is it? What stings us, precious?” It bent, twisting its neck to pierce through the dark with eyes as big and luminous as a cat’s and stare down at Bilbo.

And Bilbo then made the horrible mistake of introducing himself,-- _Bagginses? What is Bagginses, precious?--_ because all the stories agreed that one should not give up one's name quite so readily--and thus began a deadly game of riddles, the only way this mad creature who, bounded between spasms of rage and childlike glee, had agreed to help him get unlost.

The Gollum creature wretched its neck and coughed violently again. _“Gollum! Gollum!”_

Polite instinct had Bilbo patting himself down to offer a pocket handkerchief. And it was startling to have cold gold meeting his fingers instead, though in some ways oddly comforting, but that he had no handkerchief at all dismayed him, and he gripped Sting with a renewed resolve to _get out of here_.

_“If Bagginses loses, then we eats it whole.”_

He had won, unfairly as it may have been--mountains and teeth, wind and eggses, fish and time, and _what-have-I-got-in-my-pocket?--_ Bilbo did not care and he demanded to be shown the way out.

As much as he urged, the Gollum creature proved erratic. Throwing himself down into a fit, sobbing, his face open and pitiful as a child’s-- _He stole it!--_ before flying into a rage, the rock near missing Bilbo’s temple. Scrambling away, the sleeve of his dressing gown ripping out at the shoulder, and somehow that little band of gold slipped on his finger and everything changed in Bilbo‘s favor.

Gollum stared wildly about himself, twisting and turning on the spot. _“Where’s it gone? Where’s it gone, precious?”_

Bilbo did not dare breath. _Why can’t he see me?_ He thought, lightheaded at the implication. The only thing different was--the ring!

“Stolen! Stolen, precious!” Gollum hissed. “But he won’t escape us.”

The frantic creature tore off into one of the tunnels, and Bilbo scrambled to follow, sure that the creature would be leading him to the surface. He did not know how soft his footfalls were, but Gollum never turned back. Finally, the poor creature slowed, and Bilbo saw a crack, torchlight leaking through as bright as rays of the sun after being so long in the dark. The passage narrowed down to a fissure just wide enough that a fellow as small as Bilbo could squeeze comfortably through.

He waited with bated breath for Gollum to press on or change his mind and turn back. Either way, Bilbo could slip past and try his own luck finding the way out of the mountain.

Then there was a clamor of raised voices, a chorus of clinking boots, and the first dwarf ran past.

Gollum slunk back into the dark, and Bilbo bit his tongue to prevent himself from calling out to his friends. There they were-- _and he was missing them!_ To be so close and yet…

Bilbo was already desperate, but the invisibility made him bold. He sucked in his chest and took two steps back. _Bother it all._ And started off at a run to leap over the Gollum creature’s back.

Bilbo was sure he must have kicked the creature in the head but was too busy running from the shrieks and curses thrown at him. Luckily Gollum did not pursue.

 _Perhaps that Gollum is smarted than I._ Bilbo grimaced, for the reason of his dwarves’ flight became apparent. Goblins were still on their tails.

Bilbo put on a burst of speed until he could at last see the dwarves’ backs. “Wait!” He called to them. “Wait! I’m here!”

At the back of the pack, Bofur whipped his head around. “Did'ja hear, lads? Bilbo! Where is he? Bilbo!”

Bilbo cursed silently and pulled the ring off his finger, jamming it into his dressing gown pocket. “Here!”

The dwarves nearest gave up a small cheer. One broke off and fell back. Dwalin grinned fiercely, catching his axe across a goblin’s skull just as it lunged at Bilbo. “Get along, Master Hobbit,” the dwarf all but roared with laughter, his battlelust high, as he pulled Bilbo along by the arm to catch him up.

Trusting himself to dwarven stone-sense, Bilbo followed the company through the endless dark and twisting tunnels.

“Balin!” He heard Thorin bark out.

“Turn right!” Balin answered. “There should be a portal any moment!”

Bilbo had been hoping for daylight, but any way out of this mountain was better than none. He was losing his breath and could not continue on at this pace for long.

They banked hard to the right and then up a skewed stone stair, another left, a right, and Bilbo lost all sense of direction until they passage opened up into a wide room with walls of rough, unfinished stone, and the way stopped completely.

The dwarves pivoted nervously about the deadend.

“Well?” Gloin barked, hefting his axe, eyes flicking about the room.

Bilbo turned to Balin who lowered the map and shook his head. “It it here. But not at this moment.” He said, holding the map out for Thorin to see.

Panic squirmed up violently in Bilbo’s throat. The goblins were on their heels. And there was no portal in sight.

Thorin squared his shoulders and turned to face back where they came. “Guard the entrance as best you can. We must stand and fight.”

Dwalin was at his side immediately, as was Bifur and Gloin, Bofur and Fili, Kili and Dori, Oin and Balin, Nori and Bombur, all ringing the entrance with their knives, swords, mattocks, axes, staffs, whatever weapons had survived the journey and what odd pieces they had acquired along the way. Bilbo drew up to Kili’s side, Ori at his elbow, readying his slingshot. Thorin’s eyes swept over his men and alighted on Sting’s glowing blade, faltering over Bilbo’s face.

“Ori!” He shouted. “Take the hobbit and watch for the portal!”

Ori puffed out his cheeks indignantly. “But I can fight!” He protested, even as Nori nudged him to the back.

Bilbo reluctantly followed, his face hot and resentment pulling at his chest as he met Thorin's gaze one last time before the king turned his back on him and barked orders in rough Kudzhul to the others. Was that how it was? Thorin did not believe that Bilbo could fight with them? That a hobbit was not deserving to fight by his side?

 _I would have followed you anywhere._ The thought came unbidden and unexpectedly into Bilbo’s mind.

_And no one blames himself more for his failures._

Bilbo turned away to stare at the walls. He was told to wait for a portal, he reminded himself, as the sounds of battle grew louder over his shoulder, and watch for that portal, he would.

Ori shuffled restlessly at his side, watching his brothers and his friends engage the first wave of goblins. “I’m not afraid of no goblins.” He told Bilbo. “If any of ‘em dare get near my brothers, I’ll shoot a cold ball of iron right up its jacksie!” He snapped his slingshot. Bilbo nodded but was not listening. He was so tired, if the goblins broke through the lines. He glanced back. Bofur’s mattock smashed a shoulder out of its socket. A goblin screeched as Bifur impaled one. Dwalin’s axes sang through the air, accompanied by the pale blue glow of a curved elvish blade slicing gracefully through the hoard.

Bilbo winced and looked away, but all was played out by the shadows dancing on the walls.

Then without noise or forewarning sign, a portal opened at the end of the room.

Bilbo twisted back. “Thorin!” He bellowed with all the breath in his small body.

“Let’s go! Run!”

Bilbo ran toward the door, when all of a sudden, another exactly the same in appearance materialized beside it.

“There are two of them? Which one do I pick?” Bilbo shouted back. The others were still fending off goblins to cover their retreat. Ori had stayed behind to cover them, rapidly firing off shots at deadly speeds. One pierced a goblin’s head and it took three more steps before falling to the ground, blank shock fixed upon its face.

“Balin! Thorin! Which one?!”

Thorin ripped his blade free of muscle and sinew. “Just pick a door!” He shouted.

“Which door?” Bilbo shouted, panicky.

“Any door!”

 _Right._ Bilbo rubbed the bridge of his nose, took a few steps back, then lunged at the one on his right.

 _“Not that one!”_ He heard just as the portal swiftly closed behind him.


	9. A Time to Heal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It is not very often, Master Baggins, that someone has the advantage of me.” The wizard did not appear pleased at the prospect.
> 
> Shows you what it feels like for someone to get the drop on you, Bilbo thought a bit vindictively.

Bilbo’s head was swimming as if he had sustained a heavy blow. He was very, truly sick of falling, and it was no wonder that he may have taken a hit to the noggin somewhere. He felt driftless, weightless, surrounded by white light. It really was an unnerving change from the troubles he had endured of late, but his body was so tired and his aches had finally stopped screaming at him.

It was only when he found himself feeling as if he were swimming through that white light, that he realized he was struggling toward consciousness. Goodness knows when he had become _unconscious_ , and the thought that he was now _anywhere_ in a great unknown had Bilbo fighting against the paralysis of sleep to open his eyes. Such a simple task was proving impossible as his body refused to obey his wishes.

He groaned, but the sound was far away, though he distinctly felt the sensation of fingers brushing through his hair, and from that far away place of wakefulness, Bilbo heard a low and lilting voice murmuring in a strange yet familiar language. Bilbo knew he should recognize the words, and not being able to determine their meaning frustrated him even more than the inability to open his eyes.

The voice echoed in the whiteness and the hand pressed firmly to Bilbo’s brow and he lost the battle to blissful darkness.

When Bilbo next awoke, effortlessly, pale morning light coaxing him along, he noticed a sharp tickle in his throat, his nose a little stuffed up, and an elf bending over his bed.

Bilbo cleared his throat. “Wh--” He managed to croak. _Where?_ or _Who?_ Either would have been normal questions, as well as _When?_ in Bilbo’s particular case. The elf turned to a side table and poured the contents of a pitcher into a cup and handed it to Bilbo, helping the hobbit to sit up properly against the pillows to drink. Apparently _Water_ was acceptable too, as Bilbo drank the cool liquid greedily.

Bilbo licked his lips to absorb every last drop and again tried to speak. “Where are we, and who are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

The elf bending over him was dark-haired, elegant, but there was kindness in his face around the edges of his mouth and lines of sadness in the corners of his eyes. “My name is Lord Elrond, and you are quite safe here.” He sat back in the chair beside the bed and tilted his head.

“Welcome to the Last Homely House East of the Sea. You are in Rivendell.”

 _Rivendell! Home of the elves!_ How Bilbo had always dreamed of traveling there, planned the excursion, pouring over maps and packing a bag, only to unpack it and return to his study and his books and maps. How proud Belladonna would have been had Bilbo only traveled this far from home.

As it was, Bilbo sniffled and burrowed deeper into the feather pillow--real goose down if he was not mistaken. “No, no thank you, I’ve had quite enough of elves for a life time.” He said, closing his eyes against the fog still clouding his brain. “Thrown in dungeons and chased by spiders, life and liberty threatened. Yes, I’ve found a little bit of elves goes a long way.”

The face stayed smooth, except for a tick of the eyebrow and a half turn of the lips. The immortal being was amused.

He sniffled and coughed again. He must have come down with a bit of a cold, probably caught in the goblin tunnels. Who knows what sort of nasty things lurked down there.

Bilbo bolted upright in the bed. “And my friends? Are they all right?”

Lord Elrond frowned and regarded Bilbo with measuring dark eyes. “You were entirely alone when my sons found you in the woods bordering the valley. There was no sign of more of your kind.”

Bilbo leaned forward, hand reaching out reflexively to the elf. “But they weren’t--” Here Bilbo faltered. He did not know how much he should reveal about the quest to this Elrond, elf lord or no. His travels had made him wary. If he had to explain, as careful and clever with words as Bilbo was, details would undoubtedly slip out, and Bilbo was reluctant to say anything about the dwarves’ quest and especially about the map.

Elrond looked at Bilbo as if he could pluck the unspoken words from the hobbit’s mind. Instead, he took Bilbo’s hand and held it gently. “We shall search our borders again. But there was no sign of struggle. Whatever happened to your _companions_ ,” he gave Bilbo a shrewd look, “I do not think they came to any harm.” He turned in his seat to reach for something. “Though you were carrying this.”

Bilbo held his breath and let it out in a rush when Elrond produced his sword.

“Ah, _Sting!_ ” He flushed as he took it from the elf. “At least, that’s what I call it. More of a letter opener really, but it was given to me by a dear--a dear friend.” Bilbo shrugged. “You never know what you’ll find yourself up against out there in the wild world.”

That half turn of the lip quirked up again. “Yes, spiders and dungeons and elves.”

Bilbo refused to twitch underneath that elven stare. The elf lord huffed quietly and looked away. It appeared as though he would let Bilbo keep his secrets.

“You are welcome here as my guest.” Elrond rose from his chair. “When you are feeling better, you are free to walk the grounds. I would enjoy your company for dinner one evening.” He nodded and turned toward the door, pausing. “I will have someone bring you breakfast shortly.” And left.

Bilbo slumped back against the pillows with a loud sigh. “That’s all well and good.” His stomach rumbled. “But what about second breakfast?”

A thought shot through him like a cold bolt and Bilbo clutched Sting to his chest as he flailed out from beneath the blankets and stumbled around the room, searching frantically. The only pieces of furniture were a chest of drawers and a wardrobe. He pulled every drawer open to before making a beeline for the wardrobe. In a neat little pile on a shelf was his clothes. Bilbo shook out the pants, throwing them and his shirt to the floor, and seized his dressing gown. His fingers crumpled the fabric, tearing at the pockets, until they closed around a familiar metal band. Bilbo slumped to the floor in relief, just holding the gold wrapped in fabric against his chest, not daring to even remove it from the pocket. He took a shuddering breath, and looked around him again.

“Oh, dear.” He mumbled. “Look at the mess I’ve made.” He scolded himself, folding back up the discarded clothes and returning them to the shelf. “What will they think of you, a Baggins acting in such a manner. So what if you’d lost that silly ring.” A shudder came over him at the thought, but Bilbo stubbornly threw on his tattered dressing gown and tightly tied the belt. “You’ve lost something more important at the moment. Thirteen someones to be exact.”

His travel-worn clothing restored, Bilbo padded back to the overly large--for a hobbit--bed and hopped back into it, the ring clutched comfortingly in his fist. “And you’re lost yourself, Bilbo Baggins.” He sighed to himself, pocketing the ring again, and rearranged the blankets to cover himself just in time for a pretty elf maid to arrive with a laden tray.

Bilbo spent that whole day in bed, patiently explaining to the tittering elf who next brought him lunch that hobbits require all of seven meals a day and they were quite necessary for his complete recovery. As it was, he ate five, including a late tea--something medicinal but not as horrid as some of the concoctions Oin forced down their throats, and Bilbo grew moody remembering his lost dwarves.

The next day, feeling much better, he resolutely dressed in an oversized, borrowed shirt, managing to tuck the excess into his tattered pants, complete with his old dressing gown belted over. He was surprised it did not fall apart in the hands of whatever elf had carefully cleaned it. Bilbo should have been embarrassed to wear it out and about, but it had seen so many places, battles and elf kings and goblin tunnels, he would feel quite incomplete without it. Sting left in his room and the ring in his pocket, Bilbo took a turn out in the gardens, breathing in the fresh air. He turned his face upwards into the sun, eyes closed and a smile tugging irresistibly across his lips.

“Good morning.” He heard from somewhere off to his left and opened his eyes, turning to meet the owner of the voice.

Bilbo was brought up short by the sight of a gray pointed hat and a long beard belonging to the tall, old man leaning on his staff. He gaped like a stunned fish before breathing sharply through his nose.

“What do you mean by wishing me ‘good morning?’” Bilbo snapped. “Do you wish me a good morning or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not. Or is it that you, Gandalf, feel good this morning or that it is a morning to be good on?"

The wizard’s eyes widened, bright grey orbs shining with fierce intelligence and inestimable knowledge, though his face gave little away.

“All at once, I suppose.” He hummed and slowly approached Bilbo on the garden path. “I thought it strange to see one of your folk so far from the Shire, and indeed there is something strange about you. You have used my name quite freely, master hobbit, but I have not the honor of knowing yours.” The wizard spoke carefully.

Bilbo straightened up. “Bilbo Baggins. At your service.” He tacked on the last bit automatically, having heard it fall from dwarven lips so many times, and sketched a bow.

“Curious.” The grey wizard eyed Bilbo closely. “It appears as though you have met me, although I have no knowledge of meeting you…and I think I should have remembered.” He leaned down, the large brim of his hat casting Bilbo under its shadow. “Yet, I have this unshakeable feeling that somehow I know you, Bilbo Baggins.” The wizard’s grey eyes glinted with an intensity that set Bilbo’s nerves alight. Gandalf chuffed, breaking the connection and pulled himself back up to his full height. “It is not very often, Master Baggins, that someone has the advantage of me.” The wizard did not appear pleased at the prospect.

 _Shows you what it feels like for someone to get the drop on you_ , Bilbo thought a bit vindictively.

Nevertheless, Bilbo sat with Gandalf upon a bench tucked away under a weeping willow and told the wizard of the whole affair, from the first moment dwarves dropped into his smial, to the dragon, through Gondolin, Mirkwood, the disaster with the Silmarils and all the adventures in between, to the last time he had seen them, down in the goblin tunnels, where Bilbo, feeling his story had already gotten overly long and the sun had moved to midday, then skimped on the details on how he had escaped the strange, sad creature down in the bowels of the mountain.

Gandalf hurmed, and looked thoughtful, but thankfully not incredulous after Bilbo’s tale, packing his pipe and lighting it with magic.

“And what year was it for you, before you were whisked away?”

Bilbo told him. “2940.”

Gandalf sucked on his pipe and hummed. “You are sixty years in the past.”

“My mother hasn’t even married my father yet.” Bilbo smiled at the wizard. “My mother was the one who told me so many tales of all the places she’d been, all the things she’d seen. That’s why in my heart of hearts, I always longed to travel just as she did. To go and see the great mountains, and hear the pine-trees and the waterfalls, and explore the caves, and wear a sword instead of a walking-stick.”

Gandalf passed his pipe to Bilbo who gratefully sucked in the fragrant smoke. “And your mother was?” He asked.

“Belladonna Took.”

The wizard muttered the name to himself, as Bilbo passed the pipe back to him.

“She told me she once met a wizard called Mithrandir.”

Gandalf coughed suspiciously on his next inhale. “Indeed?”

“Do you know him?” Bilbo watched Gandalf out of the corner of his eye.

“I know of him.” He evaded and puffed furiously at his pipe, blowing out a series of rings in rapid succession. “Tell me more of this Thorin Oakenshield.” Gandalf demanded.

“Do you know _him_?” Bilbo asked slyly.

“Only by reputation. I once met his father and his grandfather, before they were lost in battle at the gates of Moria. I had heard of the troubles of Erebor and the dragon, as far as I have heard reports, still sleeps undisturbed within the mountain.” Gandalf tapped out his pipe and sighed. “His father Thrain had disappeared many years ago, rumored to have been driven mad.

“If he has indeed woken the great fire-drake, and now both are let loose upon all of history.” Gandalf scowled. “This desire to regain the Arkenstone is folly. Thorin cannot truly believe that possession of this stone would right all wrongs suffered by his kin.”

“I still don’t understand their obsession with it.” Bilbo sighed. “But I suppose it’s one of many things I do not understand about dwarves.” There was a patch of violets growing wild near Bilbo’s feet and he ruffled them affectionately before plucking one to brush the petals against his cheek. “I imagine it must be as beautiful as the Silmarils.”

“It is interesting that you would draw the comparison,” Gandalf said. “The Silmarils were the greatest craft of Feanor, imbued with the pure light of the Trees. These jewels reflected all light, only increasing in splendor. Not even Aule could recreate his prize student’s work.” Gandalf’s gaze drfted far off into memory. “But I do not doubt that he tried. Aule was always laboring over many grand things, but he did not parade them before others’ eyes to gain praise. His greatest creation, his own children, he buried away into the heart of the mountains until such time as befit their awakening. The heart of the mountain…” Gandalf mumbled, trailing off into soft murmurs as he chewed the stem of his pipe and Bilbo could not catch another word.

Bilbo huffed when it appeared the wizard would not continue to speak. “It seems so silly, so many battles being fought over a fancy piece of frippery.” As he spoke, his fingers hooked his pocket, rolling the ring between his thumb and forefinger.

Gandalf hummed and puffed out a stream of smoke that rose like a mountain carried on clouds, before letting Bilbo take the pipe again. “It’s seems you picked something up in those goblin tunnels.”

Bilbo’s next puff pulled the smoke down the wrong way and he suppressed the urge to cough as his throat burned. “What was that?”

“A shadow.” Gandalf stared off into the tree laden cliffs surrounding the valley. “The elves spotted him when they searched for your companions, but failed catch him. He will not come near, not with the protection of the elves upon this place. But Gollum has followed you through the portal.” He turned a speculative eye on Bilbo, which the hobbit avoided, champing uneasily on his pipe stem.

“You have no need to fear him while you abide here.” Gandalf said after a long time of them quietly smoking, passing the pipe back and forth until it was gone. “He is more wary of the elves than they are of him. You are under the protection of Lord Elrond and will come to no harm in his house.”

“But I will have to leave eventually. And what then? Where shall I go?” _And how will I find my dwarves_? That question he left unspoken. Perhaps they were glad to be rid of him. Perhaps Thorin would not want his company.

“For everything there is a time, and for every season, a purpose.” Bilbo recited, absently.

Gandalf raised an eyebrow

“An old hobbit proverb.” Bilbo grinned wryly. “Most hobbits just take it to mean to keep track of their next mealtime and which season to plant or to harvest--each occasion worthy of its own celebration under the Party Tree. But as my father used to say, _‘Bilbo,’_ ” Here he straightened his spine and pulled back his shoulders to emulate the way Bungo would hold himself, “ _‘Bilbo, my lad, everything happens at its own pace. The seasons change and nothing we can do can hold back the coming winter or coax the budding spring. But spring will follow winter as sure as snow will follow fire. The earth will sleep and wake according to its seasons, and so should you, Bilbo, act in accordance. For everything shall come to you in its own sweet time.’_ ”

Gandalf chuckled, tapping out the ashes. “Hobbits. You can learn everything there is to know about them in a month. Yet, in that same simplicity, there is a wisdom beyond even Saruman.”

Gandalf could not even stay for dinner and he was gone on some task as quickly and quietly as he had arrived in Rivendell. Bilbo was sad to see him go. As before, the wizard said much, yet Bilbo had few answers and no solution to his current problem. In the meantime, Bilbo changed for dinner--what a luxury that was! How civilized!

The elves had not proper-sized clothes for him at first. Bilbo had laid about in an oversized shirt until he had to get up and join the world. Then he had made do with what must have been a child’s clothes, a little to snug around the middle much too long in the sleeves and falling over his hips. However, the elves had been clever in sewing as well as song, and Bilbo had been measured, describing just what he would usually wear, and had been given a set of shirts, pants in a respectable length, and treasured above all, a proper waistcoat! It was not in a color he would have chosen, silver shot through with blue, but it was so elegantly embroidered and had pockets just right for a genteel hobbit to hook his thumbs in or secure something small yet dear. Bilbo had scarcely buttoned up the beautifully carved buttons, when the ring slipped its way into the right pocket.

 _Yes._ Bilbo admired himself in the mirror. He rather did cut a striking figure in it.

The coat, however, was all wrong. No lapels, no tails, entirely too elvish in design. But the color, a dark, deep blue captivated Bilbo, and it was soft and looked warm, so he shrugged it on atop everything. Though he would not be entirely acceptable in the Shire, Bilbo decided, he was well beyond his fellow hobbit’s eyes and judgments. And it would certainly do for dinner.

Dinner was a quiet, slow affair with a bounty of greens for a first course, and delicious smelling roasted root vegetables for the next. Bilbo was seated to Elrond’s left and had the sneaking suspicion that there would be no meat course. He made polite conversation with Elrond, all in low murmurs that seemed to befit the atmosphere, a trio of elves providing lilting music on harp and flute. Pretty, but the melodies wandered endlessly and Bilbo felt himself drowsing into his soup.

Then Lindir burst into the courtyard, looking harried. He dashed for the head table and was brought up short by a raised eyebrow from Elrond.

“My lord,” he stammered, “we have visitors.”

“What sort of visitors?” Elrond asked.

“Eh! Don’t you be tuggin’ that. Leave the dams something to hold on to when--” Bilbo heard the overly loud tone of someone who was hard of hearing and spoke as though everyone else suffered the same affliction floating in with a familiar clamor of voices.

“Oh, Eru.” Bilbo rested his forehead to his fingers.

“Which way is it?” A bushy red beard shoved past Lindir and its owner looked about. “Where’s supper?”

“Dwarves!” Lindir blurted out.

“Dwarves?” Elrond cocked his head.

“Dwarves.” Bilbo sighed. As delighted he would have been to see them, he well understood the misfortune of unexpected visitors.

Oin quickly followed his brother, clutching his ear trumpet to his chest and batting away a slender elvish woman. “It’s not a flute. It’s necessary.” He quarreled with her. She tittered and hid a smile behind one slender white hand.

Behind them, Bofur and Bombur, Ori, Nori, and Dori bumped into them, and the group squeezed between the tables. Bofur reached across the table to grab the basket of rolls and began tossing them to his companions.

“Bombur!” He batted a bowl of greens to his brother, who handed it off to Ori.

Ori peered into the bowl with a look of dismay. “Don’t they have any chips?”

Elrond frowned at the group of dwarves pillaging his dinner. “Any guests are welcome in Rivendell.” He started loudly. “But we have yet to be introduced.”

Dori straightened his back and approached Elrond’s table, sweeping into a refined bow. “My Lord, we are a humble company of traveling tinkers, tailors, and musicians. We heard of the hospitality of your house and beg to trespass upon your generosity.”

Bilbo’s eyebrows raised. _Who knew Dori was a silver-tongued fox?_

Nori sidled up to a table and quickly shoved a pepper grinder up his sleeve.

“Musicians?” Elrond’s eyebrow raised skeptically.

“I believe a demonstration is in order. Bofur!”

“All right lads, strike up the band!” Bofur exclaimed, clambering up on the table, knocking aside plates and cutlery, jumping onto a pedestal.

_“Theeeeeeeeere’s aaaaaaaaaaaan…”_

“Oh for all that’s good in this world.” Bilbo thunked his head onto the table. Bofur began to sing:

_“Inn there’s an inn, there’s a merry old inn_

_Beneath the old grey hill._

_And there they brew a beer so brown--”_

The other dwarves joined in the verse, clapping and stamping in time to the rhythm.

_“The man in the moon himself came down_

_One night to drink his fill.”_

“Make it stop.” Bilbo pleaded with no one in particular, looking around for the other six dwarves. He worried if the whole company had been split. If Thorin was not far behind, or lost and alone.

_“Theeeeeeeeeeeeeee osler has a tipsy cat_

_Who plays on a five string fiddle.”_

Dori got into the song, swaying and pretending to play a fiddle.

_“And all night long he saws his bow_

_Now squeaking high, now purring looooooooooow.”_

Bofur continued into another verse, dancing a jig upon his pedestal. Ori scurried up to the head table, looking bashful.

“Please, if we could have someone else volunteer to dance with us, we could have the proper number of couples to exhibit a tradition dwarvish dance.” Ori bowed to Elrond, shooting meaningful glances at Bilbo, who, embarrassed at the dwarves’ behavior, was trying his hardest to ignore those beseeching eyes.

“And you have someone in mind for this volunteer?” Elrond turned his head to Bilbo.

Ori shuffled. “Well, being the only one who is the most appropriate height--”

“Fine.” Bilbo shoved back from the table and got to his feet. “I’ll go. Though I do not know the steps!” He called as Ori grabbed his hand and pulled him onto the impromptu dance floor.

_“Sooooo, the cat on the fiddle played hey-diddle-diddle.”_

Bilbo was swung around, trying to follow the footwork without getting his toes smashed by iron toed boots.

_“And the osler shook the man in the moon.”_

“Mind if I borrow this?” Nori asked before whipping a table cloth from under the dishes without disturbing a single glass or fork. He winked at the nearest elf, who gasped, and jogged back to the group who were clustered tightly together in their dance.

_“And it’s after three, he said!”_

_“Hey!”_ They all yelled in finale as Nori tossed the tablecloth over their heads, flapping down to cover all the dwarves.

The fabric held the shape of seven dwarves and a hobbit for a moment before fluttering to the ground, no longer supported by anything or anyone.

Elrond bolted up from his chair, his eyebrows shooting to his hairline. The elves watched silently as he approached the spot. Reaching out a hand, he took hold of the cloth and drew it back, revealing only the stone floor beneath and a single glowing rune.

Lindir breathed a sigh of relief.

Elrond fixed him with a glare. “Send riders after Gandalf. Tell him to come immediately. Tell him--”

Elrond traced the rune on the floor, the light from it already fading. “Tell him, that someone is tampering with doors best left closed.”


End file.
